The Light Ahead
by esmejocasta
Summary: Esme Cousland was never expected to do much else than elegantly carry on her proud line of nobility - but a single night of death, treachery and conscription changed everything. Now, she's one of two Grey Wardens left in Ferelden, traveling through the lands in an attempt to do the impossible - stop a Blight. Little did she know what she'd experience on the way. F!Cousland/Alistair
1. A First Meeting

_Hello! I'm always coming up with little stories in my head, usually involving Alistair and my Cousland, Esme. These stories range from all over the plot of Dragon Age Origins, and I thought I'd get them down, finally. So here they are. I'll hopefully put them in order to make sense. These are just one-shots depicting my version of DA:O and some of the aftermath, and I'm calling the compilation The Light Ahead._

_Reviews are very much appreciated. Thank you for reading!_

_- EA_

* * *

_Alistair._

The name of the man she did not know and the name of the man that Duncan had sent her to find echoed through her mind over and over again, bounding back in forth through the numbed barriers of her stunned conscious. Esme Cousland, an orphan, picked her way through the borders of Ostagar, thinking of little else besides of how foolish the king was.

_You're a traitor, _she thought to herself, the rational part of her mind picking up its torn pieces and fighting desperately against the oncoming tide of bitterness._ He is the king. He knows what's best._

She passed by at least twenty soldiers, kneeling and nodding their heads to the highs and lows of the Revered Mother's voice. They relied so heavily on her words, and it set with difficulty in her heart.

_By the Maker, they're going to be dead by sundown; _she bit her lip, tucking back a piece of red hair that had fallen from her looped braids.

Esme came to an open area, and stood, watching the activity around her. The border towers of Ostagar had turned into a massive army camp in a matter of three days, rushing busily in order to meet the threat of the darkspawn. She could feel the tension in the air.

_Cailan hasn't done a good job of maintaining morale, _she thought back to her father's words on morale. It was necessary, beyond all things. A low morale could defeat an army before it even reached the battlefield. _He's too confident in his legends. He's too pleased he'll be fighting alongside the Grey Wardens to even consider his men. _

She shook her head. Who was she, to question Cailan's motives and pretend she was all-knowing of war strategy, when she hadn't even been able to protect her own parents? She was only a teryn's daughter.

_A dead teryn's daughter, _she corrected herself, and quickly she pushed the oncoming tide of grief from her mind.

_ Find Alistair._

She stopped a man passing by her. He was dressed in magnificent armor, and obviously had seniority over the soldiers surrounding her – this was evident by the way they watched him, like dogs waiting for their next command.

"Hello," he greeted her, surprised. He was old, but the experience was evident in his eyes. "I'm Teriel. Captain Teriel, technically, but that's only for them," he jerked his thumb backwards. "You're clearly not just another soldier. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Do you know who Duncan is?" Esme asked.

Teriel's eyebrows drew together.

"Of course. I'll be damned if you can't find a man in Ferelden who doesn't know that name. Ah, you must be the new recruit he's brought in from-" the man paused, realizing her most recent past. "What about Duncan?"

"He's sent me to find another Grey Warden – Alistair," Esme said. "Would you happen to know at all where he might be?"

"Alistair would be at the top of this hill, by the tower that's fallen down," Teriel pointed. "I believe Duncan had sent him to seek out a mage of some sort."

"Thank you," Esme smiled at the old captain.

"Not a problem. Luck be with you."

She nodded at the man before passing him by, beginning her trek up the hill.

_Alistair, _she thumbed the name over in her mind. He wasn't just a person she would be meeting to her at that moment. To her, he was the unknown. The symbol of her fate. He was a Grey Warden, as she would be soon. If things went wrong with him, Esme knew she would regret her choice of abandoning her parents for the rest of her life. She already regretted it, but at least there was a light at the end of the tunnel. As a Grey Warden, she could avenge her parent's death. Arl Howe would be killed within a year, and that gave her more satisfaction than anything. But if the Grey Wardens' turned out to be a mistake … Esme had no idea what she would do with herself. And for some reason, she had piled all of her fate and her hope on this one man, a man she had never seen. She only knew his name.

She finished the walk up the hill, and granite stairs with an even landing came into view. Sure enough, tower rubble surrounded the area. Off-handedly, she wondered what had happened to the tower. Something less devastating than what would occur tonight, she decided.

Two men stood on the landing, obviously arguing with each other. The first was tall, dressed in what she had come to recognize as Grey Warden armor, and a crooked smile was playing across his face. The second, considerably shorter and darker skinned, was dressed in long, golden robes that were clearly meant for mages. He was doing most of the arguing, that was for sure.

"…..What is it now?" the mage was saying, tiredly. "Haven't the Grey Wardens asked more than enough of the Circle?"

"Yes, well, I simply came to deliver a message from the revered mother, ser mage. She desires your presence," the man said, his crooked smile disappearing and his eyes turning earnest.

"What her Reverence 'desires' is of no concern to me," the mage rubbed his face with his hand. "I am busy helping the Grey Wardens – by the king's orders, I might add!"  
The crooked smile reappeared.

"Should I have asked her to write a note, then?"

Esme bit back a laugh.

"Tell her-" the mage's eyes flashed. "Tell her I will not be harassed in this manner."

"Yes," the man replied dryly. "I was harassing _you_ by delivering a message."

"Your glibness does you no credit."

"By the Maker, I thought we were getting along so well!" the Grey Warden shook his head, regretfully. "And I was going to name one of my children after you, too! Alas, 'twill never be."

"Enough. I will speak to the woman if I must," the mage turned, and glared at Esme. "Get out of my way, fool." He shoved past her.

"Your rudeness does you no credit," the man said, a little too loudly. He turned to Esme, and paused. "You know, one good thing about the blight is how it brings people together."

"Clearly, because everyone is getting along just so well," Esme said, giving him a hesitant smile and gesturing after the mage.

"You know, you just can't please everyone. Mages included. No, especially mages. I find most of the Circle to be extremely…thorny," the man added. He paused. "Wait. We haven't met yet. Please tell me you're not another mage."

"What if I told you I am?" Esme asked, and the crooked smile reappeared.

"I'm not sure I would believe you."

"And why is that?"

"You don't look like the mage-y type. Too much blood on your armor. Mages like to keep themselves tidy," the man pointed out, and she snorted. "Hold on. You're the new recruit Duncan brought in, aren't you? I'm sorry, I should've recognized you earlier. I'm Alistair. As the junior member of the order, I'll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining."

Despite the situation, despite the pressure and despite her parents having been betrayed by a man who practically raised her, she felt a little hope seep into the darkness that had surrounded her. Alistair was a nice start to the bleak road ahead of her.

"I'm Esme Cousland," she responded, taking the proffered hand, and smiling up at him. "Nice to finally meet you."


	2. Dwarven Offenses

_I couldn't leave out Alistair's part in this scene. Now, for Alistair's point of view on meeting his fellow Grey Warden ..._

_Thank you for reading!_

_- EA_

* * *

The young former-Templar had only seen Duncan for a few moments as the commander of the Grey Wardens rushed in from Highever, but from what he understood of the breathless and quickly-delivered orders is that he was supposed to find some mage, and give him a message from the Revered Mother. Oh, and that a new recruit would eventually be sent to find him as well.

Alistair was excited to show the new recruit around. He could introduce him or her to the others, tell some legends, and demonstrate his seniority a little bit – but not too much to seem obnoxious. He was the happiest that he wouldn't be the newest anymore, and could finally join in on the good-natured teasing and tricking that the newest members always had to go through. Even if the Grey Wardens were a league of elite warriors, it didn't mean they didn't have their own share of fun now and then. He had experienced enough tavern trips and practical jokes to know that for certain.

But of course, his entire façade of seniority fell through when the new recruit walked up on him while he was being harassed by a mage. But to his credit, he thought he had handled it quite well. He had even gotten the last word in, a talent Alistair had had to stifle in his days in the Chantry.

He certainly wasn't expecting the new recruit to be a woman, however. That threw him a bit. Okay, more than a bit. She wasn't a horrifying troll either, which was a nice turn of events, or so he tried to convince himself. Oh, who was he kidding. He had half-hoped she would be a man or some dwarf. No offense to the dwarves, of course, but only dwarves he had seen looked pale and sickly from being topside. And now he was mind-rambling, and she was staring at him, and she had probably said something and he hadn't heard it because he had been too busy thinking if dwarves were only attractive to other dwarves, and –

_Oh, Blight. _

_Wait. The Blight. Oh, that's good, go with that._

"You know, one good thing about the blight is how it brings people together."

His two talent were getting the last word and sarcastic comments. And perhaps swordfighting, but he didn't exactly consider that a talent - just a necessary skill.

"Clearly," she gave him a smile, and he returned it. "Because everyone is getting along just so well."

"You know, you just can't please everyone. Mages included. No, especially mages. I find most of the Circle to be extremely….thorny," Alistair stopped himself before he went on, because Maker-forbid she happened to be a mage. "Wait. We haven't met yet. Please tell me you're not another mage."

"What if I told you I am?" the woman asked him, her eyebrows raising. Alistair snorted.

"I'm not sure I would believe you."

"And why is that?"

Ooh, she was a spitfire. It matched her hair.

"You don't look like the mage-y type. Too much blood on your armor. Mages like to keep themselves tidy," Alistair pointed at her blood-encrusted armor, and she snorted. Suddenly, he remembered his duty in all of this. "Hold on. You're the new recruit Duncan brought in, aren't you? I'm sorry, I should've recognized you earlier. I'm Alistair. As the junior member of the order, I'll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining."

He paused, unsure of how to greet her. A hug would just be weird, and in his awkwardness of trying to initiate it she probably would've assumed he was assaulting her, and probably would've gone all stabbity on him with one of her daggers. And he didn't feel like standing there would be enough. After all, she would be his Sister before the sun set. He settled for shaking her hand.

"I'm Esme Cousland," she responded, taking his hand, and smiling at him, though the smile didn't reach her eyes. Her eyes were sad. "Nice to finally meet you."


	3. Survivor's Guilt

_Thank you for all the reads so far!_

_Here's another chapter, back to Esme's point of view._

_Reviews are extremely appreciated, so don't be afraid to tell me what you think._

_- EA_

* * *

Being sent into the Korcari Wilds to find the darkspawn blood seemed unnecessary. How, in all of the fighting the Grey Wardens did –especially with the blight coming-, had they not collected enough blood for the "ritual"? A ritual that had begun to grate at her nerves at every mention of it because no one would tell her truly what it was. The trip went relatively smoothly – save for finding the entire patrol dead, fighting her first darkspawn, and coming across the fabled Witch of the Wilds, and her mother. Morrigan was interesting enough, but her mother was downright terrifying. The entire venture wore her out, and already she was covered with enough cuts and bruises to last her a lifetime.

Her day was long from over, though, and she knew it when the bloodied group of four wove their way through the crowds and back to Duncan, by the Grey Wardens camp. He had been surprised that there were darkspawn venturing about in the wilds, but unlike Esme had been irrationally hoping for, he wasn't planning to put off the Joining in order to go clean out the woods or whatever Grey Wardens did at the mention of darkspawn. She was cynical, and she knew it. How could she not be, after having not slept since her parents had been killed, and having encountered her first darkspawn only an hour ago? Fighting darkspawn was harrowing. And she could hardly believe there were thousands upon thousands of them, marching towards Ostagar at that very moment.

The Joining commenced quickly, as Duncan was eager to be at Cailan's side. As soon as she heard of what she was supposed to do and watched Daveth die - screaming and writhing as Duncan and Alistair calmly watched on-, she didn't blame Ser Jory whatsoever for trying to escape. When the chalice was handed to her, though, it wasn't fear of Duncan's blade that propelled her to do as she was told as much as it was the feeling that this is what she had to do.

Though, how she ended up being the only one that survived was beyond her.

After watching all of this had happened, her only true desire was to curl up in a corner somewhere and sleep for perhaps all of eternity. She wanted to forget the empty, soulless eyes of the darkspawn she had just slipped a knife through. She wanted to forget the visions that had crashed and burned before her eyes as she sipped the darkspawn blood. She wanted to forget the searing pain that had ripped through her body. And she wanted to forget waking up to see Daveth and Ser Jory's dead bodies all over again, and the guilt she felt for surviving.

So when Duncan announced she and Alistair would only be lighting the Tower of Ishal that night, she was relieved, but guilt-ridden for being so. She wasn't surprised when Alistair spoke up, however.

"What?" Alistair protested. "I won't be in the battle?"

Esme touched the pendant that hung around her neck, still warmed by the blood inside it.

"This is by the king's personal request, Alistair," Duncan replied calmly. "If the beacon is not lit, Teryn Loghain's men won't know when to charge."

"So he needs to Grey Wardens standing up there, holding the torch, just in case, right?" Alistair sighed, turning toward Esme and searching for her agreement. When he got none, he groaned, turning back to Duncan.

"If King Cailan wishes Grey Wardens to ensure the beacon is lit, then Grey Wardens will be there," Duncan said definitively. "I do not know why he desires the both of you to do it, but it isn't our place to ask. We must do whatever we can to defeat the darkspawn – exciting or no."

"I get it, I get it," Alistair replied. "Just so you know, if the king ever asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I'm drawing the line. Darkspawn or no."

That got a laugh out of her.

"I think I'd like to see that."

"For you, maybe. But don't tell the king. Or the darkspawn. Then they'll never take me seriously."

And so, Esme dragged herself along beside Alistair, following Duncan's instructions across the other side of the gorge. Around them, the battle raged on, though Esme hadn't seen a darkspawn yet. As they furthered their distance from the battlefield, the sounds of war lessened. Soon, the only reminder there was even a blight being fought around the two was the burn searing into Esme's leg, from the explosion on the bridge. _Stupid darkspawn._

As they neared the tower, however, the dull tingling at the back of her head suddenly sharpened, and before she could turn to Alistair to ask him what it meant, a sudden pain sliced through her shoulder.

"Darkspawn!" Alistair shouted, drawing his sword and shield.

Time seemed to slow down for Esme as she turned to see an arrow embedded in the only exposed spot of her breastplate. She wrenched it out with a gloved hand, and turned to see a hurlock rising up before her, a bloody axe raised high above its head. Before she could even draw her daggers to protect herself, the tip of a sword blade suddenly appeared through its stomach, and it fell, revealing Alistair, freshly spattered in the blood of what could've been Esme's slaughterer.

_That was too close, _she thought, but "thanks" was all she managed to get out, stunned by how close to death she had just come. Alistair had just saved her life, but she knew it wouldn't be the last time he did so. He nodded in response as she finally unsheathed her daggers. The Grey Wardens turned towards the small horde that was heading towards them.

Minutes later, they were surrounded by darkspawn corpses, covered in ice frosted on their shapeless heads and picked clean of health poultices and gold. A mage and a guard had shown up last minute, and once the battle was over, they hurriedly announced that the tower had been taken. They were the only survivors.

Alistair stood from the corpse he had been kneeling at.

"Well, it looks like tonight's about to get much more exciting."


	4. Bloodied Blades

Cleaning out the tower of darkspawn was strenuous, to say the least. Esme thanked the Maker that the group had had a mage added to it – for he was useful in ways that the three warriors could never even come close to. The party of four took the tower step by step, floor by floor, until at last they were able to reach the top, where the beacon was waiting to be lit.

As the four neared the massive doors leading to the fourth floor, Alistair and Esme simultaneously paused. Both had sensed something, tingling down their spine …

"What?" The mage stopped as he noticed the change. "What is it?"

Alistair rubbed the back of his neck, as if he was trying to make the feeling go away.

"There's something … Something in there. Something bigger than the rest," he shook his head. "We have to get in there and light the beacon, no matter what's blocking us."

"Agreed," Esme decided, though the tingling was getting worse.

Alistair reached out a gloved hand, and pushed the doors open.

The four approached the entryway, and then came to a sudden halt when they saw what was inside. A massive …_thing…_ was hunched over a pile of corpses, thumbing through them with its huge fingers. When it heard the doors open, it turned, and faced the group angrily.

"What is that?" Esme breathed, her heart rate picking up to the point where she was surprised it wasn't rattling her armor. The thing was disgusting, with horns the size of Alistair's waist curving from his grey head and muscles bursting from odd bits and pieces of clothing. Briefly she wondered where things like that get clothing.

"Ogre," Alistair replied, unsheathing his sword and drawing his shield.

She drew her daggers, and blew back a strand of hair that had fallen in her face. Now was really not the time for wardrobe malfunctions.

Behind her, Esme heard the mage begin to chant some sort of incantation, and as he finished, the ogre stopped storming towards them and paused, distracted. Alistair took the time it was stunned to charge the creature, and the tower guard followed closely behind, roaring incoherently.

Esme stood for a second before she realized she should probably join in, too.

She hadn't been raised for the battlefield, though she had trained with the knights of Highever, she had been brought up as a speaker – someone to use her words as a weapon – as it had been greatly assumed she would grow up a noblewoman, marry some Arl, and continue the Cousland line of nobility. The only reason she had ever trained in fighting was because she had enjoyed it – not because anyone in the castle believed it necessary. She was good at fighting, but had none of the instincts of someone battle-prone like a typical Grey Warden.

The mage stood behind her, muttering without cease. The ogre seemed to be affected by whatever he was saying, as it stopped it's swinging attacks and paused once more, swaying in time to the mage's rhythmic words.

Esme quickly rushed into the fray, finding herself at Alistair's side, who was violently hacking away at the stunned ogre with his longsword. Quickly, the ogre came back to life and with a massive fist knocked Alistair out of her view, sending him back somewhere to land beside the mage. Esme felt her heart shrivel as the ogre turned its beady eyes on her. The creature drew back a fist, and instinctively she ducked out of way, then plunged her daggers into its retreating arm, sending them deep and somehow managing to hold on to both the hilts. The ogre swung her back with its arm, and she gasped for breath as she hit its shoulder. As her arms twisted around, she let go of the daggers, landing nimbly on the ogre's back.

_I don't have any weapons, _she thought to herself, panicking as she grasped the chain around the ogre's neck in order to stay on. The creature was attempting to get her off by any means possible, despite the mage's best attempts to stun it once more.

"I don't have anything to hit him with!" Esme yelled over the ogre's shouts.

"Can you catch?" Alistair shouted back. He was at the feet of the ogre once more, trying to get a swing at any arm that came by him.

"Can I – what?"

"Can you catch!"  
Before she could reply, she felt the ogre's massive hands grab her around the waist. Slowly, the creature brought her to his front side, and growled; sending globs of reddened spit spraying about. She winced and she struggled to release herself from its strong grip, panic rising in her throat.

"Maker!" she breathed, as the ogre tightened its grip.

"Hang on!" she could hear Alistair calling. And then – "Duck!"

She ducked as much as she could, and watched in awe as a dagger flew over her head and plunged itself into the forehead of the ogre. Its expression went blank, and the massive creature began to stumble backwards. She was instantly released from the vice-like grip, and she landed on the ground with a _thud_, rolling to the side painfully.

Alistair watched the ogre evenly as it began to tilt backwards, and then took off running. As he neared the ogre he jumped onto it, knocking it over completely, and sunk his blade in its forehead, sending ichor splattering everywhere. He drew his sword from the ogre's flesh, and jumped off the creature, turning to Esme, who was crouched on the ground, watching.

"Are you all right?" he asked, breathing heavily.

"I'm fine," she gasped for air.

"Let's light that beacon," he leaned forward and offered a hand, grabbing his side as he did so. She took it and got to her feet, approaching the ogre and withdrawing her blades from its arm.

"Ew," she muttered, wiping gore off on the creature's tattered undergarments.

Alistair snorted.

"What?" she turned to him.

"You just leapt onto the back of an ogre, which has been who knows where, and now you're grossed out about a little gore when you're, in fact, covered in it," Alistair pointed out, giving her a crooked smile, and she shrugged.

"Don't question me, peasant, I'm a Cousland," Esme tilted her head up jokingly, a smiling dancing on her, in fact, blood-spattered face.

"Whatever you say, your Highness," Alistair laughed, wiping sweat from his brow. "I hope you've never actually _seriously_ said that to someone."

"I have, actually," she replied, still smiling. He lifted an eyebrow at her. "Long story."

He turned away from her, grinning, and she, the tower guard and the mage watched as he set the brazier aflame.

"There," he paused. "Finally."

But as he turned back to the group, his face turned as white as a sheet, and Esme watched in horror as four arrow tips sprouted from his neck. Her heart dropped into her stomach, and she fell as Alistair dropped like a stone onto her. Horror pierced her body as her eyes rested on his blank face. She turned her eyes upward to see a horde of darkspawn crashing through the doors.

_There's no way … _she thought to herself blindly.

All went black as four more arrows found their target.


	5. Back to the Wilds

_Hello again! We're back in the Wilds this time around. This is the longest so far, just because of the immense amount of dialoge, and it addresses Alistair's losses somewhat, but not completely. We'll get to that later. Enjoy and review! :)_

_-EA _

* * *

Esme drifted in and out of consciousness for what felt like decades. Her numbed mind dragged, and occasionally her eyes briefly fluttered open, but what her lids revealed was always blurred and confusing. Dragons and fire danced before her confused subconscious, though if her visions were actually occurring or if they were just a subliminal mixture of her tainted nightmares were beyond her. For a while, there was nothing, only an acute feeling of pain blossoming from her torso and the visions that danced before her eyes – but soon enough, she began to feel again. Hands at first, and then a warmth like no other. Before long, she could sense the soft mattress underneath her, and the feeling of bandages wrapped around her waist.

Esme cracked open her eyes. Blearily, she inspected her surroundings. The Grey Warden was lying on a bed within a small room, a room with a corner full of books stacked as high as the ceiling. Her feeble heart jumped as she noticed she wasn't alone.

"Hello?" her voice was small, and it cracked from what she guessed what a long period of disuse.

The woman standing at the books turned, and Esme instantly recognized her as the woman who had come across them searching for the treaties. She wondered briefly how long ago that had been. She weakly searched for the woman's name, but her head was pounding and she gave up easily.

"You awaken, then. Mother will be pleased," the woman had a lilting, sophisticated voice. She was very pretty – with full lips and raven-black hair, not to mention the all-too-revealing outfit she wore.

Esme coughed for a time. "Where am I?"

"Back in the Wilds, of course," the woman replied, her head tilting as she spoke. "I am Morrigan, lest you have forgotten, and I have just bandaged your wounds. You are welcome, by the way."

Esme indulged in a slight smile, though her muscles protested.

"Thank you, Morrigan."

"How does your memory fare?" Morrigan's brows lifted. "Do you remember mother's rescue?"

"She rescued me?" Esme's own brows drew together. "You mean – from the tower?"

Memories crashed over her like a wave during a storm. Ostagar. The tower. Clearing out the darkspawn. The ogre. Lighting the beacon. The darkspawn overwhelming her. And then – nothing.

The woman hadn't spoken yet, so Esme broke the silence.

"No," she shook her head, cracking her neck. "I don't remember anything after the darkspawn overwhelmed us."

"Mother managed to save you and your friend, though it 'twas a close call," Morrigan responded. "What is important is that the both of you escaped the tower alive. The man who was to respond to your signal," she paused, "quit the field. The darkspawn won your battle."

_Loghain._

A faded memory of the king's advisor dragged itself into her mind, and she quickly recalled him bickering with the king on the placement of the Grey Wardens and the assistance from Orlais. She was too exhausted to feel angry or betrayed, and the full meaning of Morrigan's words were lost on her for the time being.

"Those he abandoned," she continued. "Were massacred. Your friend….he is not taking it well."

"My friend? You mean Alistair?"

Alistair's blood-spattered face loomed into her mind, and she felt a twinge of guilt for not remembering he had been by her side the entire night.

"He has been inconsolable since mother told him the news. He is outside, by the fire. Mother has asked to see you when you awoke."

Esme bit her lip.

"I'll go, then. Thank you again, Morrigan. Honestly."

The apostate drew her eyebrows together.

"'Twas not I that did the rescuing. But," she paused, "you are welcome. For what it is worth, anyhow."

She excused herself from the room then, leaving Esme to drag herself from the bed. She did so slowly, grabbing her waist as she maneuvered from what had been a rather comfy position. Esme made her way outside, and as she opened the door, she found herself back in the Wilds once more, with a small pond rippling nearby and a fire crackling at her feet.

Her gaze slid to her fellow Grey Warden, who was hunched over by the fire, his back facing her. He didn't notice her entrance outside.

"Alistair," she spoke gently, her heart going out to him as it slowly dawned on her what all had occurred that night in Ostagar.

He turned to her, amazement clouding his red-rimmed eyes. Worry was etched into every line on his face, and his hair was a mess, as if he had run a hand through it over a thousand times.

"You," Alistair reached out a hand as if he wanted to make sure she was real. "You're alive. Maker, I thought you were dead for sure."

"I'm not, but that's only thanks to Morrigan's mother," she responded, and he swallowed shakily.

"Do not speak of me as if I'm not here, girl," an elderly but strong voice sounded from behind her. Esme turned to see the woman she immediately recognized as Flemeth, the "Witch of the Wilds".

"Flemeth," Esme paused. "Thank you for saving me. For saving us."

"I couldn't let the last Grey Wardens in Ferelden die, now could I?" she waved a hand around idly. "Someone needs to stop the Blight."  
"The last two…" Esme let her mouth drop open, and she turned to Alistair, who was nodding miserably. "Maker, we're the only ones left, aren't we?"

"All two of us," Alistair looked down at his boots. "Duncan's dead. The Grey Wardens are all dead. Even the king…is dead."

"Yes, but you are alive, are you not?" Flemeth responded.

"Why didn't you save Duncan instead of me?" Alistair said, almost accusingly. "He is-was our leader."

"I am sorry for your Duncan, but your grief must come later, lest the shadows of your future take vengeance. As my mother used to say, duty comes first," Flemeth paused as Esme tried to formulate the meaning of her words. Her mind was still hazy. "It has always been the Grey Warden's duty to unite the lands against the darkspawn threat. Or did that change when I wasn't looking?"

"The land is hardly united, thanks to Loghain," Esme began to braid her hair, looking for something to do with her hands. "If anything, he's sent us into civil war."

"It just doesn't make any sense," Alistair rubbed his face wretchedly. "Why would he do it?"

"Perhaps he feels the darkspawn are not a real threat, and found this the perfect opportunity to take the throne," Flemeth shrugged. "Men's hearts hold shadow darker than any tainted creature."

"I'm guessing you're saying the darkspawn actually are a real threat?" Esme asked, almost dreading her answer.

"Of course, girl," Flemeth turned on the red-haired Grey Warden. "But it is not the army – it is the evil behind it."

"The archdemon," Alistair raised his head. "But if Arl Eamon knew what Loghain did – he would never stand for it. The Landsmeet would never stand for it." He looked at Esme. "Like you said. Civil war."

"Arl Eamon?" Esme asked, her brows drawing together. "The Arl of Redcliffe?"

"Yes," Alistair nodded. "He wasn't at Ostagar. He still has all of his men. I know him. He's a good man, respected by the Landsmeet."

"How does that help us?"

"Esme, look alive," Alistair shook his head, some of his old humor gleaming through. "We could go to him. Appeal for help. We don't have to be entirely alone on this."

"Whoa, we? Are we intending to take on this entire Blight ourselves?" Esme's eyes widened. "I hate to be a downer, but Alistair, there's no way we can do this by ourselves. We need more Grey Wardens. We need a leader."

"Our leader is dead," Alistair said harshly. "And the nearest Grey Wardens are Orlesians. It would take days, months even, to reach them. Maker, Esme, please tell me you're not leaving me to handle this by myself."

"Of course not," she steeled herself against his desperate eyes. "I just don't see how it's possible. How in the Maker's name could we unite Ferelden against anything, when we have Loghain biting at our heels? Even if the Arl does agree to help us, Redcliffe can't fight an entire blight alone."

"I'm sure you have other armies at your disposal besides old friends," Flemeth spoke up, sounding like she already knew the answer to the entire conundrum.

"It has to be possible," Alistair started, and suddenly, his eyes lit up. "Of course! The treaties!"

"Treaties?" Esme asked, her heart starting to pound.

"Grey Wardens can demand aid from dwarves, elves, mages and other places!" Alistair explained quickly. "They're obligated to help us during a blight!"

"I may be old," Flemeth began, "but dwarves, elves, mages, and who knows what else … That sounds like an army."

"So can we do this?" Alistair turned to Esme, excitement at finding a solution temporarily writing out the grief on his face. "Can we go to Redcliffe and these other places, and-and build an army?"

"Isn't that what Grey Wardens do?" Esme smiled slightly. "All two of us?"

Her attempt at lightening the mood only seemed to remind him of his grief, and she frowned as his eyes went downcast.

_Sorry, Alistair, _she thought to herself.

"So are you ready then? Ready to be heroes?" Flemeth was asking.

"I suppose so," Esme avoided looking at her friend. "Thank you for everything, Flemeth."

The famed Flemeth opened her mouth to respond, but at that moment Morrigan approached the trio.

"The stew is bubbling, mother. Shall I set three places, or one?"

"The Grey Wardens are leaving shortly, girl. And you will be joining them."

Esme shot a shocked glance at Alistair, who had awoken from his thoughts to send his eyebrows flying.

"Such a shame-" Morrigan started, and then her mother's words dawned on her. "_What_?"

"You heard me, girl. The last time I looked, you had ears," Flemeth let out a hearty laugh, to which no soul responded.

"Wait, hold on," Esme and Alistair started simultaneously, but with one look he deferred to her.

"What makes you think we need her?" Esme asked, not rudely.

"Her magic will be useful, Warden," Flemeth met Esme's eyes evenly. "Aside from that, she knows her way around the Wilds and how to get past the horde."

"Have _I _no say in this?" Morrigan spat furiously.

"You have been itching to get out of the Wilds for years," Flemeth responded calmly. "Here is your chance. As for you, Wardens, this is repayment for your lives."

"Some repayment," Alistair muttered under his breath, but out loud he said, "Not to look a gift horse in the mouth - but won't she just add to our problems? Outside of the Wilds, she's an apostate."

Flemeth sighed.

"If you do not wish help from us _illegal mages_, perhaps I should've left you on that tower."

"Point taken," Alistair said through gritted teeth.

"Mother," Morrigan spoke up. "This-this is not how I wanted this. I'm not even ready-"

"You must be ready," Flemeth responded. "Alone, these two must unite Ferelden against the blight. They need you, Morrigan. Without you, they will surely fail, and all will perish under the blight. Even I."

"I-" Morrigan gritted her teeth. "Understand."

"And you, Wardens-" Flemeth turned to them. "Do you understand? I give you that which I value above all in this world. I do this because _you must not fail._"

"Thank you, Flemeth. Again," Esme ignored Morrigan's piercing glare. The young apostate turned on her heel and practically stormed into the hut, with her mother following her. As soon as they were alone, Alistair approached her.

"Do you really think we should take her along?" he asked. "She's an apostate, and a famous one to boot."

"We need all the help we can get," Esme sighed.

"Grey Wardens accepting help from illegal mages," Alistair groaned. "What has Ferelden come to?"

"We're desperate," Esme replied, careful to avoid mentioning the lack of a king or the recent deaths of every Grey Warden within Ferelden. "It'll be fine, Alistair. If worst comes to worst, we send her away."

"I still don't trust her," he bit his lip. "But I see your point."

Flemeth and Morrigan reemerged.

"I am at your disposal, Grey Wardens," she paused, her face impassive. "I suggest a village north of the Wilds as our first destination. Lothering, I believe it is called. Or, if you prefer, I will simply be your silent guide. The choice is yours."

"No," Esme ignored the pointed look Alistair was giving her. "I prefer you'd speak your mind. It'd be more useful, anyhow."

"Wondrous," the apostate sighed. "Shall we be off, then? Farewell, mother. Do not forget the stew on the fire. I would hate to return to a burned down hut."

"Bah!" the famed Flemeth laughed harshly. "'Tis far more likely you will return to see this entire area, including our hut, swallowed up by the blight."

"All I meant was-"

"Yes, I know," Flemeth smile bitterly. "Do try to have fun, dear."

And with those heartening words, the trio began to set off for Lothering.


	6. A Friendship Formed

_I hope you enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it!_

_- EA_

* * *

Esme quickly learned that besides winning battles, Morrigan's favorite activity was to bicker with Alistair. The apostate could start a fight with the man over anything, from the armor he had chosen to don that morning to his choice of words when starting a conversation with a straggling refugee. Alistair was no help in the situation – he was all too pleased to encourage or to start his own squabble with her. Esme tried her best to never get involved, but she was typically pulled in to pick a winner when the arguments came to a draw, or if she thought the two were going to get physical. Which wasn't often. Alistair was well-aware that Morrigan could zap him into a frog by a simple wave of her staff – the prime reason he never drew his sword against her.

But as the trio approached Lothering, Alistair quieted. Esme noticed the change as they neared the town. Morrigan's prods were only weakly refuted, and he spent more time fingering a small worry token he had found on the road than speaking his mind. She found herself missing the bickering.

Half of her wanted to reach out to him and ask what had changed, but her logical half prevailed. Esme had decided, on the trek from Highever to Ostagar, that she would avoid any type of companionship or friendship until her duty was completed. Then, her duty had been to avenge her family, and there had been only one way to do that – kill Arl Howe. But now, her desire for revenge was outshadowed by the oncoming Blight, and the fact that there were only two Grey Wardens left in Ferelden. Her grief had been fresh then, and she had vowed it to herself only because she never wanted to feel lost again. If Esme became close to someone else that she could possibly lose – she wouldn't be able to handle it.

She still felt the same way, though guilt plagued her as she watched Alistair by the campfire. He had the worry token in his hands again, with a discarded bowl of soup by his feet.

"Lothering is but a morning's walk away," a drawling voice came from behind her, and Esme turned as Morrigan approached. "If we begin early enough, we should be able to reach the town by noon."

"Then we should definitely get up early and head out on time," Esme decided. "Right?"

Alistair looked up at his fellow Grey Warden with dimmed eyes, gave a half-hearted shrug, and returned to staring at the toy in his hands. Biting her lip, Esme turned away.

The next morning, the three drew up camp and set out, reaching the Imperial Highway in easily an hour. As Alistair, Morrigan and Esme approached the platform that overlooked the city, Esme grabbed onto the edges, looking over the valley. Lothering was beautiful – hilly and grassy, with proper buildings organized cleanly and farmlands dotting throughout.

"Ah, Lothering," Alistair remarked. "Pretty as a painting."

"The darkspawn will overrun this land within a week or so," Morrigan contradicted, immediately dampening the mood. "And the people here know it, I presume."

It was true. Even from the city's outskirts, however, Esme could easily sense the tension within. The recent influx of population was obvious – tents were scattered about, along with belongings of every size, shape and color. This was a place for refugees, though it wouldn't be for long.

"Shall we move on?" Esme longed to gaze at the scenery, but she was well aware of the time they would waste.

"Well, I wanted to talk about something, first," Alistair spoke up for what seemed like the first time in weeks.

"What is it?" Esme asked, pleased he had taken the opportunity to voice his opinions. She reassured herself that encouraging him to speak wasn't an act of friendship – something she had been doing often lately.

Alistair opened his mouth to answer, but Morrigan took the floor.

"His hands, I assume. He has been quite fascinated with them for the past week or so."

Esme waited for Alistair's biting reply, but none came. Exasperated, she filled the silence.

"She's right, Alistair. You have been quiet lately," she said, but not unkindly.

"Yes, I know, and I'm sorry for it-" Alistair started.

"'Twould not be wise for you to fall on your own blade in grief, Alistair," Morrigan sighed. "I do not believe Esme could finish this job herself. She needs you, despite what little help you provide with your presence."

_Morrigan is actually defending me, _Esme's eyebrows drew together. _And simultaneously attacking Alistair. Her own personal best of both worlds, I guess. _

"Morrigan, back off a little-" Esme began, but Alistair cut her off.

"Is it so hard for you to understand where I am right now?" the ex-templar turned on Morrigan. "Have you never lost anything important to you?"

"I have," Morrigan said, looking like her feathers had been ruffled. "I just do not feel the need to let my losses reflect in my countenance. I've more self-control than that."

Alistair let out a harsh laugh.

"So, this is the part where we're shocked to discover that you've never had a friend in your entire life? Maker, I can't imagine how hard living in the Wilds must've been. Preying on templars while all the while hiding behind your mother. How _awful_."

Esme was surprised by the bitterness in his voice, and so was Morrigan, she assumed, for the apostate was silenced for once.

"I had just wanted to talk about where we intend to go next, after Lothering," he seethed. "Never mind, then."

Alistair turned on his heel and began to walk down the steps, his shoulders hunched.

Esme was torn – her desire to chase after him was only balanced by the remembrance of the promise she had made to herself. But, standing there on the platform outside of Lothering, she realized that the combined weaponry of the longing she had to comfort him and the support she knew he needed was, at that point, more important than any futile promise she had made.

Quickly, Esme closed the gap between her and his retreating back. Alistair turned as she gently grasped his shoulder, and the fresh grief in his eyes took her by surprise.

"What?" he snapped, but as Esme's eyebrows flew into her hair, Alistair softened his tone as he added – "What do you need?"

"I just-" she paused, fingering with the buckle on her armor before she looked up at him. Emerald eyes met hazel. "Do you want to talk about Duncan?"

Whatever he had been expecting her to say, it hadn't been that. His face twisted, and guilt twanged inside her for even bringing it up.

"You don't have to do this, you know," Alistair said quietly. "I know you didn't know him as well as I did."

Esme knew he didn't mean it coldly. Both ignored the audible sigh emanating from the Morrigan as she stalked past.

"That doesn't mean I don't mourn his loss," she responded. "He was like a father to you. I understand, Alistair."

"He was," Alistair swallowed. "He was a good man, Esme. He didn't deserve the ending he got. That I know for sure."

"He saved your life by sending you to the tower," Esme said. "Clearly, he viewed you as more than a fellow Grey Warden. Duncan knew that Cailan was being, well," she hesitated, "ridiculous. Perhaps he knew how the battle would end. Maybe that's why you were sent to light the beacon."

A small smile lit up the ex-templar's face, but it quickly disappeared as his next thoughts became words.

"I should've been with him, though," Alistair shook his head. "He warned me that this could happen. And here we are. And the worst part of it all? The entirety of Ferelden believes it was us that killed him. You've seen the wanted posters. Loghain has got everyone convinced the Grey Wardens are at fault. For Duncan's death, and the king's. I don't even have anything to remember him by."

"You have your memories," Esme gave him a small smile. "I know they don't mean much to you now, but eventually you'll come to cherish them. And we'll find a way to prove the Grey Wardens were not at fault. That I'm certain of. Loghain deserves everything that's coming to him."

"Maybe," Alistair rubbed his face with his hand. "When this is all over, I'd like to hold a proper funeral for him. I don't think he had any family to speak of. He was from Highever, or so he said. Maybe I could go there. Look at putting something up in his name. I don't know."

At the mention of Highever, Esme's own face twisted as Arl Howe's face loomed into her memory. She sighed.

"Maybe I'll go with you, when you do," she offered.

"I'd like that. And I think he would've liked it too," he paused. "I'm sorry. I really am. I can't be, like Morrigan said, falling all over my blade in grief when we have more important things to focus on. I won't leave you again, I promise."

This meant more to her than anything, even though Esme knew he had no way to be certain he would even survive the next day. Or the day after that. They had already been faced with so much danger, death and despair, and yet here he was, blindly promising her he would be at her side, no matter what.

"And I'm sorry, too, Alistair. I've been really stupid," she shook her head, watching the memory of her oath slip through her fingers. "In fact, everything I'm about to say next is going to sound really stupid."

"Go on. You can't make yourself more of a fool than I've made of myself."

She smiled at him briefly.

"You know that's not true."

"Whatever, your Highness," the crooked smile was back. "Go on."

"When I left Highever, I promised myself I wouldn't make friends. Or companions. Or anything. I swore I wouldn't care for anyone until I finished my duty."

"Duty?"  
"Killing Rendon Howe," she continued. "But-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Alistair held up his hands, shock written across his face. "Killing the Arl? What? I-How-Why?"

"You don't know?" Esme's eyebrows drew together.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Alistair shook his head.

"Duncan didn't tell you? Why I left Highever?"

"He told me of a great tragedy, but he didn't go into details," Alistair said. "In fact, I promised him I wouldn't pry, though I had no intention of holding that up, believe you me. But with everything that's happened, I just didn't know when to ask you."

"Alistair," Esme swallowed as she felt the ever-presence lump in her throat growing. Now would be a horrible time to cry, she decided. "My entire family was slaughtered by the Arl."

"Your-" Alistair's mouth formed an _O_. "Your entire family."

She nodded, rubbing her eyes fiercely.

"How?" he asked wildly. "Why?"

"I don't think I can go into details right now. It's just too fresh," she crossed her arms, not meeting his eyes.

"Of course, I'm sorry," he paused, his face reddening. "Maker, I'm an idiot! I've been falling apart at the seams about a king I hardly knew, and here you are, silently mourning your family," Alistair ran his hands through his hair. "I'm so sorry, Esme. I don't even know how-"

"You don't have to," she shook her head. "That's what I was saying before, Alistair. I swore to myself that I wouldn't let myself grow close to anyone. I just-I can't lose anyone else. Not now. I don't think I could handle it. That's why I didn't talk to you earlier about all this. I didn't want to…be your friend."

"Esme," Alistair looked her straight in the eye. "You can't do this on your own. Not handling your past. Not being a Grey Warden. Not dealing with the Blight. Not anything."

"I'm trying to," Esme was back to rubbing her eyes, fighting back the tears that were quickly forming. "I shouldn't have brought this up. This was supposed to be about you, not me. I just thought you knew. What had happened."

"I had no idea," Alistair gently cupped her shoulder with his hand, and at his touch, she gave up, allowing a few tears to spill before wiping them away. "You know what, Esme Cousland? We're friends now. Whether you like it or not, I've just created our friendship. It just happened. Right here in Lothering. When people ask us in the future, when we're heroes again, how we became friends, we can say it was in Lothering, with a sneaky witch-thief acting as witness."

Esme resisted the urge to throw her arms around the ex-templar, but when she smiled at him through her tears, he did the job for her, gathering her into his arms easily. She laid her head against his chest, listening to his even heart beat and letting a few more tears escape before she gathered her composure. He held her until she withdrew, and with a small blush creeping over her cheeks, she said-

"Thanks, Alistair. I think I needed to talk about it. And you're right. I can't do this on my own."

"That's why I'm here. Besides the Blight and all that," she smiled briefly as the crooked grin reappeared – something she was already associating with Alistair. "And thank you for bringing up Duncan. I needed to talk about it, too."

"Such moments are lovely and all, but can we get going, lest we forget why we are even here?" an irritated voice came from a couple yards away, and Alistair and Esme exchanged a grin before they fell into step beside each other, approaching the apostate and heading into Lothering.


	7. Awkward Encounters

_Okay, there's quite the story on this one. For this chapter, I wrote. And wrote. And wrote. I wrote until I had about six pages done, and then I looked back and said jeesh. That's a lot to read at once. I had planned to make all of the events I had for Lothering in one chapter, but now I'm looking back on that feeling pretty stupid. So, here's the first chapter of Lotheringness. I've written out the second one (it's the second half of this one) but it's really long, so I'll put it into another chapter. And then we still have to get Sten on board. That's another chapter. Goodness!_

_So, here's a shorter one, I guess. It's really just fluff - nothing plot important happens. That's the second half. Ahh, so confusing. Just read, review and enjoy._

* * *

"More crazy?" Alistair sighed dryly. "I thought we were all fill up."

He rolled his eyes at the meaningful stare Esme shot him, but he got the message. _Don't make the crazy Chantry woman angry. _Admittedly, he could see her point – the sister had jumped into the fray that had just occurred, hacked a few men to pieces with her whirling daggers, and then had proceeded to inform them she was coming along because the Maker had told her to.

_Riiiiiiiight._

"I don't mean to be rude," Esme began, "but the _Maker _told you we were coming?"

Behind him, Morrigan snorted. The lay sister sighed and launched into an explanation.

_She's awfully pretty_, Alistair thought to himself as she spoke. Her red hair was not as bright as Esme's, though it was still pretty fiery, especially in contrast to the slim, pale face it framed. She was clearly Orlesian - her voice gave that away. It was too light and rhythmic to be from Ferelden. She was certainly good-looking, but the Chantry robes she wore made him feel like he was going to have nightmarish flashbacks, or that she was suddenly going to have the face of Revered Mother Elizabeth and start chiding him for wearing another boy's socks … _again. _He had always found himself accidentally wearing someone else's socks. It was a talent.

"Leliana," Esme stopped the Chantry sister, who had been in the middle of a desperate plea. _Right, that was the name. _"I'm not going to deny any help, especially from someone who's proven they can fight, and well." Alistair's fellow Grey Warden glanced pointedly at the dead bodies around their feet. "But let me talk to my companions, okay?"

"Of course," Leliana seemed pleased to have some kind of positive answer, and she quickly shot a bright smile at the ex-templar and in surprise, he smiled back. When he trained his eyes back onto Esme, though, Alistair could've sworn her own eyes had narrowed. The lay sister turned and began rifling through the bodies, leaving them to talk in peace.

"What do you all think of her?" Esme crossed her arms, her face completely neutral.

"I possess no opinion," Morrigan shrugged. "I cannot see a reason why we would not accept her help. She seems perfectly willing to offer it."

"Alright. Alistair?"

"She might be…" he paused, watching the Chantry sister's face light up as she came across a health poultice. "One archdemon short of a Blight….but she has skill. We just saw proof of that. I say we let her come along."

Esme nodded, almost begrudgingly.

"Why?" Alistair asked, his voice lowering. "You don't agree?"

The negativity in Esme's face cleared as soon as he pointed it out.

"No, not at all," she smiled at him, and turned. Leliana rose to her feet, her face hopeful. "We won't turn away help where it's offered. You can come along. But we're going to have to get you actual armor – Chantry robes aren't necessarily protective."

"Oh, thank you!" Leliana grasped Esme's hands and grinning. "You won't regret it!"

* * *

Alistair collapsed into the small bed, sighing contentedly as he did. It had been so long since he had been on an actual mattress – if you didn't count the one at Flemeth's, and he certainly didn't. The small group hadn't expected to be able to find room to sleep comfortably anywhere – but with the combined influence of Leliana's Chantry experience and the scene the four had created at the inn, a spot had been quickly cleared for them. He was alone, for that moment, and left to his own thoughts. Leliana and Esme were downstairs, bartering with an unfortunate merchant who had wandered in, and Morrigan was off Maker knows where, probably finding innocent men to cook into some sort of witchy stew.

_Ugh, merchants. _Greedy merchants had been the top problem the foursome had dealt with that day. Taking second, third and fourth prize were lost children, paranoid refugees and angry Chantry sisters. Alistair liked helping people, but he was starting to feel more like a nanny than a Grey Warden. From his bed, he could hear the pleasant buzzing of the inn, and he could almost pinpoint the lilting voice of the newcomer.

_Leliana. _She was … interesting. There was something off about her, but the ex-templar couldn't figure out exactly what it was. She baffled him in more ways than one. For example, the red-haired bard was pretty, that was for sure, but he couldn't find himself being attracted to her any more than he was Esme.

Alright, perhaps that was a bit rash. Esme was certainly beautiful, and it would've been a total lie to say he wasn't attracted to her a little. Or maybe a lot. He couldn't tell, exactly, but he knew he had come to revere the warm smiles Esme had begun to occasionally grant him. He knew now that before their talk outside of Lothering, he had been experiencing the neutral side of her. She had changed since they had officially become friends – she had begun to take the time to talk to him about whatever was passing through her mind at that moment, and in return, he had begun to come to her more often with his thoughts, to which she always listened with that constant half-smile. But whatever he thought about her, he knew that relationship with her was completely circumstantial. In another time and place, things might've been different. But she was his fellow Grey Warden, and the only other one left in Ferelden to boot, and that trumped anything he might've felt for her. Even though he had begun to enjoy her company much more after their talk outside of Lothering, she was nothing more than a friend to him and he was certain that wouldn't change.

His mind wandered back to Leliana. He was pleased Esme had come to accept her – whatever the Grey Warden had harbored before was gone. The two had quickly bonded over their similar fighting styles, and while they were complete opposites – Esme logical and independent, Leliana emotional and warm – they had been chatting like old friends by the time Alistair had left them. Upon leaving the tavern, Esme had immediately purchased a full set of leather armor for the bard, which had relieved him because the contrast of the Chantry robes and the bloodstained daggers in her hands had been starting to make him question everything about his upbringing.

Alistair sat up as he realized he would probably have to rejoin the group downstairs, but before he could even begin to get the desire to leave the bed, his eyes landed on the mirror hanging before him.

"Maker, no wonder so many children ran from me today," he snorted, standing and approaching the glass. His jaw was rough with a thick layer of stubble, and his hair was messy and pointed in every direction possible. The splintmail he wore was caked in blood, not unlike his face, though the gore was splattered randomly there. He briefly wondered if Morrigan had some sort of laundry spell, then quickly decided he would clean it himself before he ever asked for that apostate's help. Sighing, he laced his fingers around the buckles and began to undo his armor, revealing a thick white shirt that he quickly stripped off afterwards. Pausing, he examined his flat stomach, his eyebrows joining together as he inspected the puckered cut that had been bothering him all day. Damned darkspawn alpha had caught him right in the hip with a neat swing of an axe only a couple of days ago, and though his armor had received most of the blow, it had still given him a nice gash to deal with afterwards. With Morrigan knowing no healing magic (why wasn't he surprised?), Esme had tended to it the best she could before admitting she had no idea how to help him. Perhaps Leliana had some sort of healing knowledge, because Alistair certainly had no desire to get it infected.

"Alistair, Esme wants to-" Alistair turned as his thoughts were interrupted. Leliana stood in the doorway; her face colored and her mouth open ever so slightly. Alistair stared at her for a moment, puzzling at the cause of her blushing, but then his own complexion reddened as he realized how utterly _shirtless_ he was. He stood there in horror, waiting for the bard to say something.

She suddenly coughed and cleared her throat, her eyes deliberately staying at his.

"I'm sorry, Alistair, I didn't mean to barge in on you."

"Er, it's alright, Leliana," his voice had deepened. The ex-templar turned and began to search for his shirt desperately, his face burning. "W-what did you have to say?"

"Oh," she paused, her tone lightening. "Morrigan's returned, and Esme wants to speak with all of us. Now."

He found his bloodstained shirt and pulled it on quickly. He would've preferred to find a cleaner top, but the man had had quite enough shirtless embarrassment for that day.

"Let's head down, then," Alistair decided, carefully watching the bard. Her face was still quite red, and she was biting her lip pensively. At his words though, she quickly turned on her heel and left the room, leaving Alistair to follow like a shamed puppy.

Esme was the first to notice the rosiness of both their faces, and her eyebrows drew together in what might've been confusion at the sight of it. Her eyes met Alistair's, and he pointedly shook his head.

_Don't ask, _he pleaded silently. _Especially with Morrigan here._


	8. A Rare and Beautiful Thing

_This was really fun to write. Read, enjoy and review!_

* * *

Alistair woke up in a state he had begun to find himself in more and more nowadays – embarrassed. Why? Because when Esme had shaken him awake, she had been giggling uncontrollably. It had only taken a few minutes of ribbing her to find out he had been moaning about cheese in his sleep.

_Awkward._

So he was hungry for some real food, big deal, he had said, which had only made her laugh more. But he could tell the rest of the group was as well. They'd been living on Morrigan's infamous any-kind-of-animal-it's-best-not-to-ask stew, because attracting attention by sitting down and ordering food would not have been a good thing. The only legal member of their group was Leliana, and according to the tales she told of her past, that could change very quickly.

"I've been thinking, and you're right, Alistair," Esme spoke up suddenly, as the foursome quietly travelled through Lothering. "We need real food. Not that your stew isn't fantastic, Morrigan."

The witch raised her eyebrows in surprise, and Alistair coughed quietly to hide a snort. Even she knew it was bad.

"But we need real food. And new armor, or at least patches for the broken bits. And healing poultices. And a lot more. And the only way to do that is to get more money," the Grey Warden decided.

"There's a chanter's board by the Chantry," Leliana pointed out softly. "Perhaps we could try there, and see if there's anything to be done for some reward?"

"Oh, and next will we be fetching kittens from trees?" Morrigan sighed. "We have already done enough to assist this blighted little town. I say we depart quickly, lest the darkspawn arrive."

"Alistair?" Esme turned to the senior Grey Warden.

The man rubbed the back of his neck instinctively. She was constantly deferring to him with matters concerning being a Grey Warden, even though he was only about six months her elder.

"The darkspawn aren't far, but they're certainly not about to invade the town," he said, shrugging. "Getting some extra funds isn't a bad idea, and we might need it in the future anyway."

"Then that's what we'll do," Esme nodded, and Morrigan let out a groan.

"Come on, it won't be that bad. You'll get to kill things," Alistair waved his hands about, trying to give her an indication of the immense amount of killable things nearby. The ex-templar was only interested in making her feel better for the purpose of silencing her moans.

"You think I take pleasure in killing things?" the witch turned on him.

"Don't you?" Alistair scoffed, and before Morrigan could open her mouth to reply, Esme broke in.

"Calm down, you two," she said quietly. "No drawing attention to ourselves, remember? We can't have any templars noticing you-" she nodded at the witch, "and we can't have any more of Loghain's men swooping down upon us."

"Yes," Alistair said through gritted teeth, "swooping _is _bad."

He grinned appreciatively as Esme laughed.

"Especially when the said swoopers have better armor and weapons then we do," Leliana shrugged, pausing as Alistair and Esme snorted. "Which is where more money comes in, yes?"

* * *

The first and only notice hanging on the Chanter's board was an alert about three groups of bandits that had been picking off refugees northwest of Lothering. It was dangerous, but the reward was massive, so Esme and Leliana quickly decided that they would seek these bandits out - with Alistair only too happy to follow and Morrigan having been silenced by logical reasoning.

The group was quiet with anticipation as they marched north, seeking the area where Ser Bryant had informed them the first bandit camp would be. The group came into view, and Alistair quickly sized them up. Six armed bandits stood around a campfire, and one had a crossbow. Esme took the lead of the group, with Alistair hovering behind her.

"Hello, fellas," she greeted the men, and they turned, each drawing their weapons. "Now, now, no need for that. I was simply going to ask you to leave this area."

"I'm afraid we can't do that, missy," the nearest bandit leered.

"Would it even make a difference if I told you I was a Grey Warden?" she asked, feigning sadness. Her hands were hovering over the hilts of her daggers.

_Void it, Esme. That'll only make them want to kill us more. _Alistair made a mental note to remind her that the Grey Wardens were no longer a name that inspired fear in others.

"A Grey Warden, eh?" the leader exchanged a glance with the nearest man. "I've heard there's a pretty high bounty on your head. Might have to just exchange the two, eh?"

Esme drew her weapons, as did Alistair and Leliana. Behind him, Morrigan began casting. The battle was over in no time, as the bandits were leaderless and had really no tactics whatsoever. As they moved on to the next camp, the foursome quickly developed their own strategy. Leliana and Esme had similar fighting styles, but Esme preferred to be in the front lines, where Leliana was often found dashing around, stabbing where it seemed necessary. And so, Esme and Alistair fell into a rhythm beside each other, one back constantly facing the other, both in sync to the other's movements. Morrigan stood back, casting offensive spells and glyphs with haunting, whispered words, and Leliana circled the Grey Wardens, all the while keeping an eye on the witch to make sure no straggling man neared her. While Morrigan was powerful, the robes, or lack thereof, stood no chance against a dagger or a sword.

The foursome made quick work of each of the camps, finishing off the second and third with ease. Alistair shoved the final bandit into Esme's daggers with his shield and the group looted all of the camps. In total, they had come up with more money than was even offered as a reward.

As Leliana and Morrigan stacked the bodies around them, Alistair approached his fellow Grey Warden and she turned to him with brightened eyes.

"This is great," she held a small pouch in her hand. "We have enough money to get all of us new armor, and Morrigan some robes, if she wants to replace her own clothes."

"Clothes? Please. Those are strips of fabric. Curtains, even. Clothes actually cover things," Esme raised an eyebrow with a light smile playing on her face, and he backtracked quickly. "Not that I'd noticed the lack of covering, or that I'd want to look at…_things. _Especially Morrigan related things."

"Of course, Alistair," she was smirking now.

"Oh, go take your assumptive self somewhere else," he sighed heavily, feeling the familiar blush creep over his face. The ex-templar waved a hand, giving her a crooked grin so she'd know he was kidding. "Begone, wench."

"As you say, your Highness," she practically flounced away, disappearing over the hillside to join Leliana and Morrigan.

He stood for a moment, watching her, the truth to her words ringing in his ears. He'd have to tell her sometime, he knew it. But Alistair was enjoying her not knowing, honestly. He knew what would happen once he told her who his father was. She'd get the same look in her eyes everyone got, and then the coddling would begin. Before he knew it, she'd be sending him to sit in the nearest corner during their battles. He'd tell her by Redcliffe, he decided, but the desire to keep their relationship the same was too great for him to put any kind of determination into his oath.

Alistair began to turn and trek up the hill to the rest of his companions, but before he could make it very far, something caught his eye. A bush sat nearby, tucked into the trough of the hillside. It had clearly been devoured by the taint – dead, sickened leaves curled like talons around blackened branches. He quickly identified it as a rosebush, or at least, it had been. The dead flowers lay alongside the bush like some kind of sick holiday arrangement, and bile rose in his throat. The darkspawn spared nothing.

But his tawny eyes widened as they rested on a single, perfect rose. It was taller than the rest of branches, and free of any tangles, as if it had tried to disentangle itself before its escape attempt. It was pristine, and as colorful as his cheeks had been lately. The rose was beautiful, and somehow, it had survived the darkness creeping around it. The darkness had tainted and destroyed its surroundings, but it had risen above it all. Somehow.

"You're plucky, aren't you?" he said quietly, looking at the rose. "All of your family and friends are dead, but you kept going."

He stopped approaching the bush, realizing suddenly how crazy he sounded.

_Oh Maker, Alistair, now you're actually talking to a plant, _he thought. _And you thought Morrigan hadn't made you insane just yet._

"Alistair?" a voice came, and he turned to see Esme watching him from the hilltop. Judging from the lack of confusion on her face, she hadn't seen him talk to the bush. Thank the Maker. "You coming?"

"Yeah, just one second," he answered, and she nodded, turning away.

The Grey Warden looked at the retreating figure of the red-haired noblewoman, then back to the rose, smiling slightly as the similarities between the two dawned on him. A few of the likenesses were obvious – their shared qualities of beauty and the color red, for example. But the last was something deeper. Esme had escaped her planned death, and despite her entire family having died the same night she was supposed to, she had continued on. Throughout all the darkness and despair, the woman had made something of herself. Throughout everything, she was a survivor - just like that rose.

He drew his sword and cut the flower from the bush, then arranged it so it was tucked safely in his pack. Maybe he would share it with his friend, tell her about the similarities, and confess how much he admired her for relentlessly continuing on. Or maybe he would just keep it to himself, as a reminder of the beauty and strength possible in the world, even in all of the darkness.


	9. Recruitment for Atonement

_Here's a shorter chapter. Now introducing Sten! I feel like if I had included all of the dialogue with Mother Hannah, then this chapter would've been way too long. So here's a shortened version._

_Read, enjoy, review!_

* * *

"Shok ebasit hissra-"

"I saw you take the supplies from my cart!"  
"Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun."

"Your grassland eyes are inept! The Chasind would never stoop to petty theft!"

" Maraas shokra-"

"You marshfolk are all thieves and-and liars!"

"Anaan esaam Qun."

Esme rubbed her face, her tired mind blurring the words that had drifted to her ears from somewhere behind, and the shrieks of the man standing next to her. What _had_ been yet another problem to address had suddenly become less ten times less interesting in contrast to the prayer-like verses that Esme was hearing. Quickly, she forced herself back into focus. Both the Chasind and the man in front of her were watching the red-haired rogue, as if they were expecting a solution.

"Even when we're traitors, the Grey Wardens are still the babysitters of Ferelden," she muttered under her breath.

"You're being cynicaaaaaal," Alistair sang quietly.

"Enough," she stepped forward, placing a calming hand on the man's shoulder. "The people here are already frightened enough, without all this shouting. The best thing you can do is just walk away, alright?"

"But what about my food?" he wailed.

"Here's some coins," Esme fished a few silvers from the pouch on her belt, ignoring the murmured protest from Morrigan. "Buy some more food."

"Thank you, miss," the man took the coins eagerly, let out a short little bow, then dashed away.

"Are we yet done solving every problem within this town?" Morrigan sighed. "I am tiring of it."

"Hopefully, yes," Esme put her pouch away. "I was planning on asking if we should probably be leaving Lothering by tonight. Redcliffe isn't getting any closer."

Alistair began to nod, then paled at the mention of Redcliffe, but Esme raised no questions, _thank the Maker_.

"Leliana? What do you think?" Esme turned to find the bard, but she was nowhere to be found. "Leliana?"  
"Over here," the heavily accented voice came from nearby, and the threesome approached the bard, only to become more concerned with the _massive_ cage in front of her. The size of it was necessary for what it contained. The man inside was taller than even an abnormally lengthy man, with his waist the size of the oak trees growing nearby. His white, stiffly braided hair was in stark contrast to the grey tone of his skin. The giant regarded the four with emotionless purple eyes. It seemed to be waiting for one of them to speak.

"Hello," Esme said hesitantly, tilting her head to the side.

"You are not one of my captors," the giant spoke stoically, with absolutely no emotion. "I will not amuse you, human. Leave me in peace."  
"What are you doing in there?" Alistair spoke up, stepping to Esme's side.

"I told you, I will not amuse you."

"Maybe we can help you," Esme said.

"I am in doubt of that. I was placed here by the Chantry," the man paused. "I am Sten, of the Beresaad – the vanguard – of the Qunari people."

"I'm Esme Cousland, daughter of Teryn Bryce Cousland," the Grey Warden responded, not unkindly. She was proud of herself for a brief moment – mentions of her family no longer sent her into a blubbering mess. "I'm also a Grey Warden. Pleased to meet you."

Alistair figured he should introduce himself as well, if only not to make the giant angry.

"I'm Alistair," he said, and then realizing how _foolish _he sounded beside Esme's qualifications, "I'm also a Grey Warden. Nice to meet you."

Sten grunted.

"You are both polite. I am surprised."

_Of course we are, your biceps are the size of my waist, _Alistair dryly thought to himself, but he chose not to voice it.

"So, Sten, of the Qunari people," Esme began. "Why are you in that cage?"  
"I have been convicted of manslaughter. Has there been no talk of me throughout the village?"

The giant almost sounded … disappointed.

"I have heard talk of a large man in a cage," Leliana voiced. "But the villagers are much too concerned with their own affairs, I would guess." Sten grunted.

"Who did you murder?" Morrigan asked abruptly.

"The population of farmhold. Eight humans, in addition to the children."

"Oh," Alistair said, his voice higher than he had intended. Esme's eyes widened, but she said nothing.

"That's horrible!" Leliana gasped.

"I agree."

Esme laughed outright at his stoic tone, but at the shocked glances from Alistair, she silenced herself by biting her lip. The Qunari looked at her blankly, but she could've sworn there was some amusement in his purple eyes.

"Why did you do it?" Alistair questioned.

"The reason does not matter. My life is forfeit."

"Don't you want to seek atonement?" Esme tilted her head to the side. Alistair recognized the sudden spark in her eyes, and dread filled him. _Esme, we are not bringing this man along._

"Death will be my atonement."

"There are other ways to repent," Esme spoke bravely.

"I am not sure what you mean, Grey Warden."

"You could help me – us-" Esme gestured towards her companions. "Defend this land against the Blight. Would the Revered mother let you free?"

"Perhaps if she was told the Grey Wardens needed my assistance," Sten shrugged.

"Then that's what we'll do," Esme decided, turning to face the others.

"A proud man, left to be torn to pieces by darkspawn," Morrigan mused. "It reflects on the _mercy _ of the Chantry, does it not?"

"I'm sure the Revered mother had her own reasons," Leliana defended her religion quickly. "But it is awful. Maybe we _should_ take him along."

"Are you all insane?" Alistair burst out. "He just calmly admitted he killed eight people! Children too! Do you want his record to be hiked up to twelve?"

"I hope that math did not stress you overmuch," Morrigan crossed her arms, and Alistair shot her a scathing glare.

"Do you really want to leave him to the darkspawn, though?" Esme turned to her fellow Grey Warden. "Despite whatever he's done…He could help us. Qunari are strong and powerful. I understand the risk, but I think the benefits could completely outweigh the drawbacks."

"He won't help us much if we're dead by the morning," Alistair pointed out. "That's a pretty big drawback."

"We might be dead by the morning anyhow," Morrigan said darkly.

Alistair sighed, running his hands through his hair.

"Fine."

"Thank you, Alistair," Esme smiled at him hesitantly.

"Sure, sure," the man grumbled. "Whatever makes you happy, your Highness."

* * *

With Leliana on their side, the Revered mother irresolutely handed over the key to Esme. When they returned and unlocked the cage, the Qunari showed no sign of relief. He simply rolled his shoulders, and nodded at the red-haired woman.

"Thank you."

"Hold on," Esme said. "The Revered mother has decided on your release on one condition – you help us, the Grey Wardens, stop the Blight."

"I accept," Sten replied simply. "I am yours, Grey Warden. Do with me what you will."

Alistair opened his mouth and then paused, wondering if he should make the Qunari swear on something that they wouldn't be added to his list of kills. He decided against it.

"Then we should get you some food, and some armor. And a weapon, of course," Esme began, guiding the Qunari towards the marketplace of Lothering. Alistair groaned, and then began to follow the four. Redcliffe would have to wait.


	10. An Assassin's Promise

_Goodness! Longest chapter yet! I considered splitting it in half, but I couldn't find a good cutoff point._

_I use the word thunderously a lot this time around. Enjoy, read and review!_

* * *

Loghain Mac Tir was the only soul in the grand entrance of the palace who knew of the Arl's treachery to the Couslands, but even without this knowledge, Rendon Howe was ill-considered by all in the hall. Howe was a greasy and sniveling man. Yet, the recently declared regent was the only man who did not grudgingly drop to his knees at the Arl's entrance. The shrunken gray haired man ignored the bowing crowd, beelining straight towards Loghain.

"Arl Howe," the former teryn turned, his brow heavy and his eyes thunderous. It was his typical appearance – the man was never pleased.

"Teryn Loghain," the Arl dipped his head in spurious respect. "I bring…disturbing news."

"More?" Loghain muttered, taking a sip from his goblet. "It seems that betraying a king and an entire nation of Grey Wardens brings more problems than I'd imagined."

"You openly admit what you've done?" Arl Howe's mouth formed into an _O, _his greasily smooth countenance broken for a moment.

"I've no shame. You and I are the only ones who are aware of what truly happened at Ostagar. Not even my daughter knows," Loghain shrugged. "None of these fools-" he gestured towards the crowd, "are listening, and even if they were, their death would be simple to arrange."

"You seem very sure of your position," Rendon Howe said smoothly, recovering.

"I am," Loghain replied confidently, taking a long sip.

"Then hopefully my news will not disturb you greatly," the Arl began. "But I bring tidings of survivors of Ostagar."

"Survivors?" Loghain's looked at Howe steadily.

"Yes. Grey Wardens. I am honestly not sure how they survived, ser."

The former teryn's eyes darkened as the memory of his last meeting with the king surfaced.

"I do. At the last minute, Cailan sent two of the newest recruits to the Tower of Ishal, with the mission of lighting the beacon that would 'signal' my armies to move in. Like a fool, I had agreed to his idea, assuming that the Tower of Ishal would become as overrun as the rest of the blighted battlefield. In fact, it was Bryce Cousland's daughter and some tall fool. I don't remember either of their names."

The Arl nodded evenly, a hint of joy bubbling up in his black eyes at the thought of the information he held. There was a certain delight in sharing bad news – at least for him.

"That tall fool you mention," Howe leaned in, his eyes sparking, "is more important than you make him sound."

"Just tell me the point," Loghain scowled. "I'm getting tired of your greasy games, Howe."

"The man who survived," Arl Howe paused for a last desperate attempt at drama, "is the son of Maric. And a serving girl from the castle. He survived, and he has a claim to the throne."

Loghain slammed his glass down on the table, shattering it into thick, sharp pieces that crashed to the entry hall ground. He growled and shook his hand free of the remaining glass, spraying drops of blood and wine. The Arl watched it calmly, delighting in his reaction.

"Damn Maric and his infinite prostitutes. The survivor," Loghain hissed through clenched teeth, "must be killed. Immediately. He cannot be a threat."

"I've already begun to take care of that, ser," Howe turned as the wide doors to the hall opened. "Here is his now, in fact."

Loghain watched the newcomer carefully, his eyes easily picking out the Antivan Crow insignia stamped into the hilts of the daggers strapped to the man's back. He was clearly from Antiva, then. That was evident in the classic Antivan features that stood out on his face – the rounded lips and the naturally bronzed skin. However, they were somewhat mired by his high cheekbones and slim, angular jaw – traits that drew Loghain to the conclusion regarding the newcomer's elvish descent even before his pointed ears were revealed.

"This is the elf I have hired for the job," the Arl gestured towards the Antivan. "He is a Crow, and as I'm sure you know, they're quite famous for their…effectiveness. His name is-"

"I know who the Crows are, Howe. I need not be introduced." Loghain interrupted, turning to the blonde elf. "You will complete your mission, and return to me as quickly. Understand?"

"I understand," the assassin nodded, his voice accented heavily.

The Arl and the assassin turned to leave, but Loghain stopped them with his next sentence.

"Howe."

"Yes, ser?"

"The woman who survived is Bryce Cousland's daughter," he began. "I met her…She is fiery. She will be coming after you soon enough. And I would fear her arrival."

"You are correct as always, Loghain. Would you take care of her as well?" the Arl turned to the elf.

"For an added fee," he smirked.

* * *

The road to Redcliffe was difficult enough – darkspawn, bandits, sharp rocks - without the thoughts of Alistair's impending confession looming over his mind. Esme had her own fears about returning to Redcliffe as well, though hers were much more political than personal. She had only heard word of Arl Eamon's condition through hushed tones, but from what she had been able to decipher his situation was desperate. So desperate, in fact, that his own knights had left to seek out the Urn of Sacred Ashes – something Esme believed did not exist but Leliana worshipped thoroughly.

Yet they carried on through the rough paths, carving a winding road from Lothering to Ostagar. The tense air that had manifested itself early on in their travels had dissipated with the red-haired bard in the party. Alistair and Esme had taken to her quickly, and their threesome was swiftly built, while Morrigan and Sten watched on, both alike in their countenances but neither willing to admit it. Leliana was the balancing act between Esme's calm and Alistair's energy, and as a group of three they did quite well together.

All of the excitement could almost make Alistair and Esme forget their sudden proximity to Redcliffe. Almost.

As Esme led the group of five into the final valley before Redcliffe, her heart nearly stopped as a bloodcurdling scream echoed throughout. She drew her weapons quickly, blood pumping. Alistair was at her side in a minute, his sword drawn and his face tense. Before they could investigate, however, a bloodied woman appeared through the fog. _The source of the screams? _

"Thank the Maker you're here!" she shouted, gasping for air. "There are bandits – they attacked our cart! Help us, please!'

Alistair looked at Esme with a face that clearly said _more bandits? Really?_

"Lead the way," Esme fought off a small smirk at Alistair's expression, her anxiety fading. Bandits she could handle.

But as the woman led them towards the broken cart, something changed. Her shoulders became less tensed and she stopped gasping for breath. Suddenly, she turned, a slow smile spreading across her face.

"Esme….." Leliana murmured. "We need to get out of here."

Before Esme could hurriedly agree, a tall, lithe man stepped from behind the cart. He was clearly an elf, and her eyes picked out the daggers he had strapped to his back. She tensed her hold on her own.

"Assasins," Morrigan was saying. "We must get out of here!"

"The Grey Wardens die here!" the elf shouted, a heavy accent glaring through.

With a hand gesture, he seemed to draw into focus what must've been fifteen or twenty men, appearing at each and every angle around the group of five. Panic coursed through her veins.

_We're trapped._

From his perch on the valley's topside, an assassin fired a flaming arrow that was easily deflected by Alistair's shield. She realized quickly her team was waiting for her order, and she inwardly cursed her lack of battleground training.

"Attack!" Esme shouted awkwardly, and the valley plunged into battle. Morrigan instantly backed away from the fray, beginning to pick off victims from afar, while the others dove in, each seeking out their own assassin to defeat.

An elf rushed Esme, and she stepped out of range easily, stabbing where the elf should've landed. But only empty air found the blade of her dagger, and she whirled around quick enough to sidestep what would've been a killing blow. She wasn't used to fighting quick rogues like herself – only clumsy darkspawn. The elf stabbed at her waist, and she deflected it with the blade of her dagger, before twisting and sinking her left blade in his stomach. She let the assassin fall before seeking out Alistair. He was doing well with two elves on each side, deftly blocking left and right with his massive shield. Leliana was as equally matched as Esme was, holding her own against an elf twice her size. Sten was handling three elves at once, throwing them off guard with his greatsword, while Morrigan was simply picking off the men from afar. Esme grinned wildly, wiping the blood from her face. Surprisingly, the battle was going well.

An arrow bounced off the armor around her knee, and she growled, turning towards the source and rushing them. A few neat swings later and they were toppled. Her eyes scanned the battlefield once more. Where was that blighted leader?

There he was. The coward was watching the fight almost idly, sending arrows flying almost randomly, but they landed perfectly, finding the weakened or injured spots of her companions. Her heart pounded as she approached him quietly, slipping around the broken cart. Esme emerged, her daggers ready to strike, but the elf was no longer there.

"Looking for me?"

The accented voice came from behind her, and she whirled around, blocking a blow to her waist. Not to be deterred, he withdrew his blades and twisted around her, staying low and tense. He thrust once more, and she sidestepped, leaping in for a shot that was quickly fought off. The elf let out a feral growl, then dove at Esme, his daggers flying. For a while, the two were locked in combat, one perfectly and equally matched with the other. Every shot was blocked, every twist followed, every maneuver countered. No edge could be gained with either side – it began to become a game of exhaustion.

Until Alistair arrived, with him having been trying to escape the main battle ever since he had seen Esme attack the leader. It became two against one, and though the elf fought remarkably well, the ex-templar's strength eventually outweighed the assassin's speed. The Antivan ducked to escape a killing blow from Esme's right hand, but took the edge of Alistair's shield to his face. The elf dropped to the dusty ground, blood seeping from his forehead.

Around the small fight, the battle had ended. Sten, Morrigan and Leliana approached the Grey Wardens wearily – all three of them completely covered in blood, mostly not their own. Sten was grasping his arm, and Esme turned to see blood dripping through.

"Are you all right?" she asked, tilting her head in concern.

"I'm more concerned about what we're going to do to him," Sten jerked his head in the direction of the assassin leader, who was very much alive.

"I am not going to beg for my life, if that's what you're asking," the Antivan spat blood.

"I think you'll do whatever we ask you to," Alistair said lightly.

"You must be keeping me alive for some reason," the elf pointed out.

"Don't push your luck," Esme hissed. "You're alive, but we could easily remedy that condition. Keep that in mind."

"Oh, you're an aggressive little minx," the Antivan laughed weakly, then added, "Lovely, too."

Alistair's brow drew together as Esme tensed her jaw. He was extremely good-looking, she noted grudgingly, with his obviously elvish and Antivan features combined pleasantly. Shoulder length blonde hair was tucked behind his pointed ears, and a tattoo like hers covered the right side of his face, stretching from his high cheekbones to his slim jaw.

"If you're going to ask me questions," the elf began, "I might as well save you some time and get straight to the point."

"Go on," Esme said through gritted teeth.

"My name is Zevran," he paused, "Zev to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying you-" the elf raised a hand to point at Alistair, "and you." He nodded at Esme. "Though you were added to the job as an afterthought."

"An afterthought?" she asked, kneeling down beside the elf. Alistair stood behind her protectively.

"A dark-haired man informed the man who hired me of something that was most disturbing to him. Something to do with a man named Bryce Cousland. Anyhow, the dark-haired man believes you're-" he smirked, "fiery. He believed you would come after the oily man eventually, so for an extra two hundred sovereigns, I was assigned to kill you as well."

Her eyes smoldered at her father's name. Grief no longer came to her at his mention – only a rushing hatred and incoherent anger. The rage coursed through her now and Alistair placed a hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off, heat carving its way through her veins. She didn't want sympathy. She wanted revenge.

"I-am-not-fiery," she choked, finding that the only topic she could respond to without screaming.

"So you say," Zevran spread his hands open. "Yet your eyes could be described as such at this moment."

Esme's brows drew together, and she glared at the elf in such a way that silenced him immediately.

"Who hired you?" Alistair asked angrily.

"A man named Rendon Howe, I believe."

Her eyes flared, and she gripped the hilt of her dagger tightly.

"But my purpose was to serve another. A rather taciturn man in the capital – Loghain, if I recall correctly." Zevran paused, watching as the entire group before him exchanged glances. "I see that name is familiar to you all. Anyhow, I was assigned with killing both of you, which I have failed at."

"Fortunately."

"I would believe so, if I were in your shoes. But sadly, I am not. Which leaves me the unpleasant situation of dealing with the circumstances."

"The circumstances?"

"The circumstances," he nodded. "They are between this Loghain and the Crows, and then, the Crows and myself. And it will most likely end in just the Crows, as I will no longer be around to consider them soon after the Crows are informed of my failure."

Esme nodded, delving deep in to thought. This man could be useful. He knew of Arl Howe's location. He knew where the man had been, and how to contact him. Alistair watched her warily.

"When were you next going to see the man who hired you?"

"If I had succeeded, never. I was to return to Antiva, and the Crows would have informed your Loghain and the other man … Howe."

She hissed angrily.

"But do you know how to contact Howe?"

"I know of his most recent location and the address of his estate, but I cannot say much besides that."

Esme looked at Alistair, her normally calm eyes full of emotion. His heart wrenched for her, but if she was thinking what he thought she was thinking….

"Esme," he said softly.

She looked at her feet, her cheeks reddening. When the Grey Warden met his eyes again, her green orbs were guarded carefully. He sighed, looking back down at the injured elf, who had watched the entire exchange with his eyebrows cocked.

"What will the Crows do to you, once they've discovered you've failed?" Esme asked carefully.

"I will be killed," Zevran shrugged simply. "My life is forfeit now. I will most likely be dead by dawn. But the thing is…" he paused. "I rather like living. And it seems to me that I have information you desire."

Alistair tensed.

"We are not taking the assassin with us," he said loudly. Esme just shot him a look.

"Yes, yes. However, the situation remains the same. I have information this lovely woman desires. Simultaneously, I have skills that the rest of you do not. Let me serve you. Let me assist you in whatever adventure is being undertaken."

Esme rubbed her face tiredly.

"How do we know you won't finish the job?"

"I happen to be a very _loyal _person!" Zevran protested, and Alistair snorted. "Up until the point where I am expected to die for failing. That's not a fault, is it? Unless you are the type to expect the same. In which case, I suppose I do not come very well-recommended."

Her lips curved into a hesitant smile at his comment. The assassin's eyes lit up at the reprieve of her stormy countenance.

"Besides, even if I did kill you know, I would still be killed for betraying them in the first place. So, your deaths would not win me much."

Esme paused.

"So, what do you say?" Zevran asked tentatively. "Shall I be joining you?"

"I say you must think I'm royally stupid."

"I believe you are royally tough to kill," Zevran shrugged, laughing. "And utterly gorgeous."

Alistair stepped forward harshly at that comment, his eyes narrowing at the slight blush that was creeping up Esme's neck.

"Okay, okay, hold on," he held up a hand. "We cannot seriously be considering taking an assassin along. An assassin, who, about fifteen minutes ago, was trying to slip a blade through our ribs!"

Esme quickly grabbed his arm and guided him away from the rest of the group, who had fallen into their own discussions of the elf.

"Alistair, please," she said quietly. "This elf could help me. He could help me find Arl Howe."

"He only knows the man's last location," Alistair responded, feeling like he was fighting a losing battle. "That's all. And he might not even know that. He could be lying, for all we know."

"It's better than what I have now – which is nothing," she looked down at her boots.

"I understand your motivation, Esme, I really do. But what's to stop him from killing us tomorrow morning?"

"You heard him," she replied, meeting his eyes earnestly. He bit his lip. "Besides, he has skills none of us do. He could help us, with, you know, everything. With his connections-"

"-Assassin-y connections."

A grin slowly spread across her face. If Alistair was making jokes, then he was done arguing.

"Killing him would just be a waste," she finished.

"Esme Cousland," he shook his head. "You are going to be the death of me. First an apostate, then a murderer, and now an assassin. I hesitate to wonder what's going to be next."

"Thank you," Esme smiled at him, her eyes warm, then turned on her heel and knelt by the assassin.

"What do you want in return?" she asked simply, and Zevran's hazel eyes lit up once more.

"Well, to be alive, for one. It would please me and make me marginally more useful to you, I believe. And if, in the future, you decide you have no desire for me any longer, then I only ask my release. Other than that, I am your humble servant. Is that fair?"

"Yes," she said. "And in return for us saving your life, you will tell me everything you know of Arl Howe and Loghain. You will also swear fealty to us – as in, no finishing the job."

"I will do all of that," Zevran nodded easily. "May I ask your name?"

"Esme Cousland," the woman replied, and Zevran's eyes darkened, understanding dawning on him at the mention of her last name.

"Then, Esme Cousland, I swear fealty to you and your companions. I am yours, completely and utterly."

"Then I accept your offer," she said, standing and offering a hand to the elf. The assassin got to his feet slowly, cupping his hand around his forehead to stop the sudden flow of blood.

"Leliana, will you work on healing him?" Esme asked, and the red-haired bard nodded, smiling hesitantly at the elf.

The last of the Cousland line then wandered off with Morrigan to collect whatever she could from the bodies nearby, and Alistair's jaw tensed as he noticed the way Zevran's eyes appreciatively followed her retreating form. The Grey Warden absolutely despised the tone the assassin's voice had taken on as he had promised his fealty. _I am yours. _


	11. Dream Dealings

_A bit of a lighter chapter, save for the beginning..._

_Enjoy, read and review!_

* * *

The darkspawn. They were everywhere, marching in thick, massive clumps, growling obscene words, gnawing on the bones of her companions….Thick walls were closing in, approaching at an alarming rate. Esme could see freedom, but bloody layers of human flesh blocked the light shining in the distance. The Grey Warden gagged at the stench that clouded her nose, at the flies that buzzed incessantly, nibbling on the mounds of humans surrounding her. And the darkspawn…They watched. They ate. They drank.

Bright, quick flashes of light made tears come to her eyes, and she rubbed them fiercely, watching darkness begin to edge her vision. A blast hit her suddenly, knocking her onto the bones she recognized as Alistair's. Esme screamed, trying to leap to her feet, but her legs were suddenly paralyzed. Suddenly, the bones were gone, the flesh was gone, and the blood was gone – all she could see was a cave, and thousands of darkspawn marching past her, ignoring her stricken form.

And then pain hit her, pain like nothing she had ever felt. A dragon had landed on the bridge that crossed over the gulley containing the millions of darkspawn – but it wasn't a dragon like the sketches she had seen in history books. It was twisted and tainted, warped beyond reality and turned into the monstrous being that was before her. It hadn't seen her yet – it was ….talking? to the darkspawn below it. Yes, it was talking in only a language they could understand. Fear gripped her like n ogre's grasp, and her only instinct was to flee. But she couldn't, her legs wouldn't move, no matter how hard she tried. So she watched it talk to the horde, praying to the Maker it wouldn't notice her. Did the Maker exist in such a place like this?

The dragon suddenly took flight in a blast that knocked her to the ground once more, even though she didn't remember standing up. Esme watched in horror as a darkspawn began to approach her, but confusion fogged her mind. The darkspawn looked familiar, and suddenly she felt awfully tired. Was that Alistair? The not-darkspawn closed the distance between them and knelt by her. Yes, that was Alistair, she thought, exhaustion making her eyelids heavy. Alistair with a darkspawn's body….

"Esme, wake up."

Alistair? Or the darkspawn? Was it talking, or was that Alistair's accent she recognized? No, it was too confusing, and she just wanted to sleep.

"Esme."

The darkspawn reached out a hand and gently touched her shoulder. Suddenly she was on a different type of ground and it was warm, with a cot was underneath her shaking form. A hand was on her shoulder, but it was a soft and certainly not the one of a darkspawn. Esme opened her eyes almost fearfully to see Alistair's face over hers, his face calm but his eyes only betraying his concern. Behind him, instead of a cavernous ceiling, the moon hung in the pitch black sky.

She had only been dreaming. But Maker, it had seemed so real. The relief that coursed through her veins at awakening was nothing compared to the relief she felt at seeing Alistair alive.

"Bad dreams, huh?" Alistair asked casually, but his voice shook a little.

"How bad did it seem?"

"You screamed," Alistair shuddered. "And it was awful. I've never heard anything like it."

Briefly, she remembered falling on his corpse.

"That dream…" she swallowed. "It seemed so real."

"That's because it was," Alistair leaned back on his haunches as she sat up on her elbows. A cursory once-over of the camp showed Zevran and Leliana watching her with concern on their faces. "Sort of, anyway. The archdemon…It _talks _to the horde, and we can sense it. Some of the older Grey Wardens say they can understand what it's saying, but Maker knows I can't. It's all part of the lovely package that being a Grey Warden offers."

"So that's how we know this is really a Blight?" she asked, and he nodded. "Why didn't Duncan just tell everyone that?"

"Yes, because he's going to go around telling people that we should prepare to fight an evil demon dragon because he _dreamed _it. Knowing Cailan, he would've just assumed Duncan had eaten some bad sausage or something," Alistair pointed out to Esme's soft laughter.

She shook her head.

"Thank the Maker the first part of my dream wasn't real," Esme murmured.

"What was it?" Alistair asked quickly, and then paused. "Sorry. I understand if you don't want to tell me."

"I want to tell you," she said, and her eyes were earnest. Alistair noted how large her eyes could get when she was emotional. He liked that she could open up to him – to everyone else, she was guarded, independent Esme, with her eyes built like blockades.

He wrapped his arms around his knees like a child preparing for story-time, and she smiled.

"I was in some kind of cave, but I was the only one alive. Everyone else was dead, and stacked up around me. And they had all been dead for a while, and I could tell…And the darkspawn were moving in on the corpses," she explained softly, and he shuddered. "Leliana was dead. Zevran was dead. Sten, Morrigan, my family."

"Was I there?"

"I didn't find you until the end," she gulped. "The archdemon landed, and I fell…on you."

"My corpse."

She nodded, her eyes not meeting his. Alistair raised an eyebrow, not missing a beat though inside he was a little shocked.

"And then?"

"And then the Grey Warden part of the dream kicked in. The archdemon talked to the horde, I watched. The end."

"When do you think you screamed?" Alistair questioned.

"Probably when I fell on you," she looked at her feet uncomfortably. "I've never been so scared in my entire life, honestly."

Alistair touched her hand gently as she hastily continued.

"But I'm used to being told of my sleeping horror stories. I can't tell you how many times I've awoken to people standing over me worried because I fell off my bed, or screamed, or shouted obscenities-" he laughed. "I'm the worst sleeper."

"Did you always have nightmares?"

"It's not always nightmares," she smiled in remembrance. "One time, Ser Gilmore woke me up because I had been shouting about what I had had for dinner."

"I can't picture you yelling about soup," he was chuckling "Sorry."

"You just haven't seen my weird side," she pushed him, and he fell over laughing, still trying to picture the calm and serious warrior he had come to know having a _weird _side.

"You are absolutely incapable of having any kind of weird side," Alistair declared, still lying on the ground where had landed. She kicked him gently, grinning.

"I am too."

"Nope. Esme Cousland and _weird _don't belong in the same sentence."

"I can prove you wrong," she decided.

"Alright," he sat up. "Go."

"What?"

"Be weird."

"I can't just do it on command," she protested, and he busted up. "I'll sneak it up on you. Just you wait, Alistair."

"I'll be waiting with bated breath," he chortled, then began to get to his feet. "For now, let's get you something to eat."

"Alistair," Esme began, and he turned, watching that typical half-smile curve her lips. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. It was scary for me at first, too," he smiled lightly. "It'll get better, I promise."

"You're a good friend. I'm glad you're….alive," the words tumbled out before she could check herself.

"As am I," he grinned. "But that's what I'm here for. Delivering witty one-liners and surviving being stuck with a perfectly _normal _noblewoman, an apostate and an assassin."

"At least you're succeeding at one," Esme crowed.

"Cruel!" he grasped his heart and pretended to faint until she laughed. Then, the ex-templar turned to find his friend some food, before realizing with a devious smile that if he could find soup, he might get to hear her shout about it tonight. _That _was something to look forward to, Alistair thought.


	12. Disarming Stares

_Another lighter chapter. I swear, there'll be some action soon! I'm really enjoying writing these fluffier pieces._

_Enjoy, read & review!_

* * *

_There's something about rain that creates panic_, Esme thought as she watched the fourth tent fall under Leliana's shaking hands for the fourth time. _It's not like real panic, like when darkspawn appear. It's like an underlying anxiety. It makes people snap at each other, and shake and grumble and sigh._

Using the tents Leliana had brought had not been much of a priority for a while – typically, when the five collapsed into camp, their exhaustion was too heavy to even try to tackle the tents. So, for days, they settled into cots around the fire Morrigan maintained. But as Zevran pointed out the ominous looking clouds ahead that night, the need for tents became very necessary, unless of course Morrigan possessed some kind of rain-away spell. Which, she didn't. Alistair had asked. As thunder had begun to rumble, Esme, Alistair and Leliana had begun to set up the tents while the others had quickly finished preparing food.

"Blast it," Leliana wiped her face, ruefully kicking the remnants of the tent. "Alistair, you try."

"I've already been delegated to _standing around and looking pretty _by our pleasant Grey Warden friend," Alistair sighed as Esme smirked. "I don't think I should try to help again."

"After one try you declared that these tents were too Orlesian for you," Esme pointed out. Leliana giggled.

"Fine, fine," Alistair waved his hands around as lightning split the sky. "I'll try one more time."

Somehow, with the combined efforts of the bard and the two Grey Wardens, the fourth tenth went up. Thunder rumbled in the distance as Leliana hastily searched for the final tent.

"This is a lovely situation," Morrigan noted as small drops began to fall. Sten grunted.

"I can't find the last tent!" Leliana shouted as thunder echoed through the trees. She ran her hands through her dank hair. "And it's starting to rain harder. Two of us will just have to pair up!"

"I'll sleep with Esme," Zevran offered smoothly, one eyebrow raised. His blonde hair was damp and sticking to his cheekbones. "If I must."

Esme's cheeks flushed, and before she could even answer, Alistair spoke up.

"That won't be necessary," he replied easily. "I'll share with Esme."

"Do I have no say in this? What if I want to sleep with Leliana?" Esme asked, peeved even though she was surprised and a _little _pleased Alistair had offered.

"Fine with me," Zevran purred. Leliana pushed him roughly, and Zevran raised his hands up in submission. "I will sleep alone, then. Or will I?" He glanced at Leliana, who rolled her eyes.

Esme groaned, then walked towards the fire to gather her things. It was raining hard now, and she jumped a little when Alistair grabbed her elbow. Rain had plastered his reddish-brown hair on his forehead, and he pushed it back, blinking water out of his eyes.

"Hey, are you okay with us sharing?" he asked gently. "Sorry if I embarrassed you. The thought of you sharing a tent with an assassin…"

"Jealous?" Esme joked, unraveling her braids. Her red hair instantly darkened with the rain, and stuck to her neck in thick layers.

"No," Alistair watched her nimble fingers make quick work of the braids. "I just don't trust Zevran, and I'd rather you be dead than alive." It came out harsher than he meant it. She pursed her lips tightly and regarded him with those blockaded eyes. A tiny feeling of regret twinged in his gut.

"Uh, thanks, I guess," Esme sighed. "It's fine, Alistair. We're friends, right?"

"Friends," Alistair declared, and then, trying to lighten the mood, "So which side do you like to sleep on?"

"Right," she answered quickly. "You?"

"Left," he smiled hesitantly.

* * *

A few hours later, Esme lay on her back with her fingers crossed over her stomach, watching the tent ripple as the droplets pattered against it. She didn't hate thunderstorms, but the thought of being alone during one wasn't a pleasant thought. She turned her head, her eyes picking out the bulky form of Alistair beside her. The tent was smaller than the two of them had thought, and even though Alistair had made an effort to lay his bedroll as far away from her as possible, that only ended up being about a foot from her waist.

She couldn't sleep. And it wasn't because of the ex-templar lying beside her. Okay, that was half of the reason, but not because she _liked _him. Esme Cousland wasn't used to sharing beds. She couldn't remember the last time she had, besides her playdates with Ser Gilmore, but that surely didn't count. Here, the air was crackling with tension and anxiety, even though neither was speaking. The other half? Every time she closed her eyes, hordes of darkspawn reared their ugly heads underneath her eyelids.

Esme wanted to talk to him, but she wasn't exactly sure what had passed between them earlier. She hesitated to admit she had looked for his typical blush when she had asked him if he was jealous, but it had been too dark to see.

_Void it._

"Alistair?" she asked, and that word, like a question, hung in the air for a few moments. "Are you awake?"

"No," the reply came instantly from beside her. It sounded like she had broken him out of some sort of reverie. "Not even close."

She paused.

"Tell me a story."

Alistair shifted, and she turned her head again to see his tawny eyes blinking at her within the darkness. She was shocked by how close he was, even though they were both pressed against the edge of the tent.

"A story?" His voice was tinted with amusement.

"Maybe not a story," she said, regretting it. "Tell me about your past."

"My past?" he asked. "You make it sound so dramatic."

"You're being difficult," she sighed, and he chuckled.

"Okay, okay. What do you want to know?"

"Tell me about how you became a Grey Warden."

"Same as you did," he shifted again, trying to get comfortable on his side. "Drink some blood, choke a little, pass out, and wake up with a weird tingly feeling on your neck."

"I did not pass out," she said indignantly. "Well, to be honest, that whole night is a blur to me."

"Oh, you did," Alistair snorted. "Duncan was the one who held me back from slapping you awake."

"I'm glad to see my fellow Grey Warden was concerned for me," Esme said dryly.

"I was just happy someone had survived out of that Joining."

"Did you think I was going to survive it before I did?"

"Yes," Alistair replied simply. "You were the strongest. Constantly declaring your womanhood, remember?"

"You talk about it as if it was years ago," Esme said affectionately. "And yes. Ser Jory was constantly whining about the darkspawn, and Daveth kept trying to flirt with me and failing terribly."

"You're awfully hard to flirt with," Alistair pointed out. "You're the most disarming woman I've ever met."

"Like you've even tried," Esme snorted. "And I am not disarming."

"Who knows, maybe I have!" Alistair was laughing. "And you are. You take men down with that calm green-eyed stare."

"Calm green-eyed stare? You're starting to sound like Leliana. And besides, I would know if you were flirting with me, Alistair," she replied easily.

"You're very confident in yourself," he pointed out.

"I have to be," she sighed, and then brightened. "Go ahead, try to flirt with me. I bet you can do it. Channel your inner Zevran."

"That won't be hard," he said smoothly, in classic Zevran tone, and she laughed out loud, rubbing her hands together to warm them.

"Are you cold?" Alistair asked softly. "Let me help."

Before she could protest, his hands were over hers, their fingers intertwining as he warmed her hands. Esme froze, her eyes widening in the darkness.

"Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?" He wasn't meeting her gaze, keeping his tawny eyes on their intertwined hands. He gently rubbed her palm with his thumb. "I could stare into your eyes for eternity."

Lightning flashed, highlighting every single thing within the tent. Esme's cheeks took on the same rosy shade as Alistair's as she realized how close her face was to his – mere inches separated their lips. His eyes suddenly met hers, and he instantly dropped her hands. The spell was broken.

Silence lay on the two in the tent like a heavy blanket. Alistair coughed, dropping his eyes from hers.

"See?" Alistair began huskily. He rolled onto his back, lengthening the distance between them. "Flirting. I'm almost as good as Zevran."

"Are you sure? Was that flirting?" Esme asked. "I couldn't tell."

"I think you could tell," Alistair smirked. "You were enraptured."

"I was not!" Esme protested. "The day you enrapture me is the day the archdemon puts on a dress and dances the Remigold."

"That'd be something to see," the ex-templar snorted. "So, you wanted to hear about my past?"

"Oh, yes," Esme said hastily, thankful to get off the topic of her enrapture. "How did you become a Grey Warden?"

"Duncan took me from the Chantry when I was a teenager," Alistair began. "There was a massive tournament held in honor of the Grey Wardens, and even though I didn't perform as well as the other templars, Duncan liked me. He had to invoke the Right of Conscription against the Grand Cleric though, and Maker, she was furious. It was hilarious and _terrifying_."

"Why do you think he liked you?"

"My stunning personality, of course," Alistair boasted, and she smirked. "But I think he could tell how miserable I was at the Chantry. I hated it there with every fiber of my being."

"Then why did you go there to start with?" She questioned.

"I didn't choose to be a templar. It wasn't exactly my decision. I told you how Arl Eamon took me in as an orphan and raised me, right?"

"Yes."

"Arl Eamon married an Orlesian woman named Isolde when I was three years old. She looks sweet on the outside, but Maker, was she cruel to me. I used to sleep in the barn, on a barrel of hay. I was constantly being punished, sent off to clean, scour and wash. As soon as I turned of age, she shipped me off to the nearest Chantry."

"That's an awful thing to do to a child," Esme sighed. "Why didn't Arl Eamon stop her?"

"She resented the rumors that pegged me as his illegitimate son, and I suppose he felt protecting me would just prove them, even though they were untrue. Anyway, I understand it now. That doesn't mean I'd thank her for everything she did, though.

"I remember I had an amulet. It was the only thing I had left of my mother's – silver, with Andraste's holy symbol on it. I was so furious at being sent to the Chantry that I threw it against the wall, and it shattered. Stupid, stupid thing to do."

"You were young," she said softly. "Did Arl Eamon ever visit you in the Chantry?"

"At the beginning, yes," he shifted heavily. "But I hated it there, and I blamed him for everything. I was awful to him, and eventually, he just stopped coming."

"You were just a child," the warmth in her voice was comforting to the ex-templar.

"And raised by wolves too, or I could've been, the way I acted," Alistair muttered. "I'm going to apologize to Arl Eamon when we get there. And thank him for taking me in. I don't think I ever did. He didn't need to – I could've very well been sent off to some orphanage."

"I think that's the right thing to do," Esme decided. "And if I see Isolde when we're in Redcliffe, I'll tell her exactly what I think of her."

"I'd love to see that," Alistair laughed. "Maker, I hope Arl Eamon's alright. If he isn't…No, I don't want to think about that."

"He'll be fine," Esme touched Alistair on the shoulder, and stiffened, surprised at her gesture. "If there's anything we can do to help him, it'll be done. We need him, and more importantly, you need him."

Alistair smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"Alright, I've told you a story," he began. "Time for sleep, your Highness."

"Good night, Alistair," Esme rolled her eyes, then shifted onto her back.

"Wait."

"What?"

"You were totally enraptured, Cousland."

"I was _not_!" she cried, kicking his legs until he yelped.

Satisfied, she turned back to her cot, her eyes narrowed but a faint smile on her lips. Sleep would not come soon, she knew. The memory of Alistair's hands on hers was haunting her. The man beside her fell asleep quickly though, and as lightning flashed, she saw a small smile ghosting across his mouth.


	13. Opposing Decisions

_The last of the fluffier pieces. Redcliffe has to be saved somehow, right?_

* * *

"Ah, Redcliffe," Esme murmured, pausing.

"Pretty as a painting," Alistair finished, clapping his hands onto the fence in front of them.

"Are the both of you two going to declare the beauty of every new city we come across?" Morrigan sighed.

"Probably," Alistair elbowed Esme, and she squawked in protest.

Alistair was grinning, but the anxiety he truly felt was well concealed. The group of five stood on the edge of a small overlook, right before the entrance to the town. The city was small and squashed, with houses jumbled together, connected by bridges. The Chantry was easy to spot, as was the castle in the distance. However, Redcliffe was quiet. Not a soul walked around in plain view. Esme bit her lip, wondering if perhaps they had just caught the city during some kind of Chantry service.

"I've yet to figure out why it's called Redcliffe," Leliana spoke up from Esme's right side, her hands gripping the small fence that stood as a barrier between them and the valley below.

"Is the name not self-explanatory?" Sten asked mechanically.

"There has to be some kind of deeper meaning to it besides the color of the cliffs," Leliana spread her arms out, displaying how many meanings it had to have. "Perhaps the founder of the town had a lover-"

"Not everything is as deep and romantic as you would like, Leliana," Morrigan smirked. "I assume that the town is called Redcliffe because the cliffs are indeed red."

"I'm not sure about that, Morrigan," Zevran said smoothly from Esme's left side. "Most things are deep and romantic, though whether you choose to enjoy them or not is your own preference."

"I sense you are referring to my continued rejection of your repeated offer to warm my tent?" Morrigan asked blithely.

"Are we really debating about this?" Esme interrupted. "Come on, let's head into town."

"I believe we were discussing my offer-" Zevran began, but was silenced by Esme's hand cupped across his mouth. The assassin smirked underneath her palm.

"Wait, before we go," Alistair spoke up. "Esme, can I talk to you?"

"Sure," she raised an eyebrow at him.

The ex-templar skeptically glanced at group.

"Alone."

"Okay," Esme said warily, leading the way towards a more secluded area. "What's going on?"

"I need to tell you something," Alistair tapped the trunk of the tree beside them nervously. "I thought it'd be a good idea, before we entered Redcliffe. In fact, I probably should've told you earlier."

"Just tell me," Esme urged.

"Well…." Alistair paused, his cheeks already reddening. "You know how I told you that Arl Eamon took me in when I was a child and raised me? Then I got sent to the Chantry?"

She nodded, sheepishly remembering the rainy night in her tent.

"Uh, well, Eamon did that because," Alistair blew air out of his cheeks. "Uh, how do I even say this? King Maric had more than one son, but the second son was not of Queen Rowan's. The mother of the second son was a servant. And the second son was me."

Esme's face went white, then red, and then settled back on white again. Her mouth formed a small O, and she stared at him with guarded eyes. This awkward eye contact lasted for at least a minute before Alistair became too uncomfortable under her gaze.

She couldn't believe it. The man standing before her was the heir to the throne. The _prince _of Ferelden – the only one left, anyway. Her first instinct was to feel hurt that he hadn't told her earlier, but she quickly dismissed that. It was ridiculous for her to feel so personally involved.

"Well, say something."

"I-" she paused, her voice low. "I'm not sure how to react to this."

"I was hoping without anger," Alistair offered.

Esme was thinking, he could tell.

"You didn't think to tell me this before?" she asked carefully.

"How? When would I say that?" Alistair sighed, running his hands through his hair. "Oh, by the way, King Maric had sex with a servant and produced an illegitimate son. That's meeeee."

"I feel like this information would've been a lot more useful at the beginning, when we didn't have any sense or direction against Loghain," she said almost bitterly, and he couldn't tell if she was angry or not. "Why did you keep it a secret?"

"I'm just not used to telling people," he muttered. "Even Duncan was the only Grey Warden who knew. And he coddled me because of it. That's what everyone does – they treat me differently as soon as they find out. They either resent me, or coddle me. I just didn't want that to happen again."

"That's very selfish, Alistair," she pointed out with an edge to her voice.

He gritted his teeth; half vexed at her for saying it and half vexed at himself for knowing it was true.

"I just wanted you to like me for me, not the prince who should've died with the rest of the Grey Wardens."

Her eyes softened, but Esme's mind was working - Alistair had more of a claim to the throne than Loghain. _We can use him, _she thought, almost happily. Finally, a solution besides the surreal idea of somehow finding every race in Ferelden and requesting their help. _Alistair can threaten Loghain for the throne._

"Are you angry at me?" Alistair asked, instantly hating himself for the smallness in his voice.

"I'm not," Esme shook her head, and Alistair smiled hesitantly in relief. "I just wish I had known earlier. This could've been useful."

"Useful?" he asked warily, his grin disappearing quickly.

"You're the heir to the throne," she pointed out. "You're closer to it than Loghain, anyway. We can use this against him, because Maker knows I don't trust him or his daughter."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Alistair held his hands up, his eyebrows drawn together. "I don't want to be king! No, the very idea of it terrifies me. If anyone should be king, it's Arl Eamon. He's a good man, and most importantly, very popular with the people."

"If Arl Eamon is as sick as everyone says, it may be our only choice," Esme responded, and he narrowed his eyes at the casualness in her voice; like she could just choose his future right then and there.

"I'm not going to be king, Esme," he said through gritted teeth. The stern tone of his voice surprised her. She'd never heard him be strict, besides when he had told Zev-_No, don't think of the other night. You'll start blushing...again._

"So you'd put Anora or Loghain on the throne?" she asked, shaking her head slightly to clear her mind.

"No, I just-" Alistair took a deep breath. "This was supposed to be about me telling you, not about my fate, remember?"

"Okay," Esme placated, her eyebrows raised.

"Good," he blew air out of his cheeks again. "Now can we just go back to normal, with you thinking I'm some goofy Grey Warden who wasn't lucky enough to die with the rest at Ostagar?"

She nodded slowly. Her mind was still working, however, completing plans as fast as the ideas for them could appear. Alistair was kind-hearted, but he tended to defer. Esme wasn't completely confident he was even fit to be king, but at that moment, she decided he was their only chance. And Maker, if she couldn't help and inspire him to become more of a leader, what had her years of training as a politician been for?

But he couldn't know any of that. The crooked smile was hesitantly playing on his lips again, and she couldn't help but smile in return. His grin widened as the tension quickly dissipated between them.

It was hard for Alistair to stay angry at her, even when she planned his future out for him. He wasn't dumb - the Grey Warden could tell she was still thinking about it, probably making plans to educate him on taking the throne or what-have-you. Being king was an absolutely terrifying idea to the man. He could hardly handle being one of the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden, let alone lead and repair the country from the Blight. No, there was no way he would be king, no matter how hard Esme tried to convince him. She could be very convincing, he decided idly. Those green eyes sometimes...

Her voice interrupted his reverie.

"You know what this means, right?"

"What, your Highness?"

"I finally have a nickname in response to that awful one."

"Oh no, not-"

"Oh yes, my prince."

Alistair cringed involuntarily, and she burst into laughter.

"I'm going to regret this. Somehow, I can just feel it."


	14. Violations and Lacerations

_Here's a shorter chapter. I lied about the fluff pieces being over..._

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"There is one behind you, Esme!"

The cry reached the red-haired Warden's ears above the racket of the fighting, and with a quick movement she swiveled, plunging her dagger into the chest of the skeleton rearing up behind her.

"Thanks, Morrigan!" Esme shouted as the demonic glow in its eyes sputtered out. She kicked the skeleton so it fell to the ground, and with her dagger free, the Grey Warden turned to face the hallway. The din of fighting had calmed now, with most of the skeletons littered across the ground. Two of companions were easily found – Zevran was nearby, finishing off the last of the skeletons with the help of Morrigan. But the locating the third was not so easily done, and almost frantically, her green eyes scanned the hallway. Esme sighed in relief as she picked Alistair out of the mangled skeletons on the ground – he was hunched over, his head in his hands.

"Alistair," she quickly closed the distance between them. "Are you all right?"

The Grey Warden slowly looked up at Esme, and she gasped as her eyes found the gash at the side of his neck.

"I'm okay, I'm just…dizzy," he groaned. She fell to her knees, grasping Alistair's shoulders as he lurched forward, dripping blood across her lap.

"Maker, Alistair," she said, probably a little too loudly. Something shifted in the room beside them.

"Shhh,_ mi cara_," Zevran said quietly. "Whatever these things are, we're in no condition to fight more just yet."

The Antivan elf was right – Zevran was cut across the arm badly, the Grey Warden herself had a nice gash on her knee, and as Morrigan came closer, Esme's eyes picked out a burn mark across her chest.

_These skeletons don't die easy, _Esme mused. _And there has to be hundreds of them in this castle._

She didn't voice her worries, however, and her thoughts had quickly turned back to Alistair. He was watching her cautiously, and she tried to maintain a calm front as her eyes shot to the blood seeping down his neck.

"Zevran, Morrigan-" she paused. "Check the rooms we already cleared for survivors. Valena might be in one of them. I'll work on Alistair."

For once, neither protested as they ducked into the adjoining rooms.

"Damned skeletons," he muttered. "Caught me right in the neck."

"You'll have to be more careful, Alistair," she said shakily.

"Why would I do that, when I have you as a healer?" he joked, trying to stay still as she sopped up the blood that had pooled in the neck of his armor. Alistair winced every time her cloth neared the cut, and not for the first time that month, she cursed her lack of healing training. Esme located a small canteen of water, and his eyes widened as she tilted it towards the gash.

"Is it going to sting?"

"You're like a child," she laughed softly, gently washing the wound out. Esme paused. "I'm hoping it's clean now."

"Me too. I think the poultice is next," he offered helpfully.

"I'm sorry I'm so bad at this," she sighed, quickly finding a poultice from her bag. It was the last one.

"You never thought you'd have to be good at it," Alistair said simply.

Esme gave him a small smile, and then with unusually shaky hands applied the poultice to the wound. Alistair cringed every time her fingers touched the gash so she finished the job quickly, bandaging it to satisfaction.

"You're not terrible," the Grey Warden shrugged, then winced.

"No more shrugging for you," she grinned, relieved. "Can you stand?"

Esme offered him a hand, and he grabbed it, starting to shakily get to his feet. But with an exaggerated groan, Alistair suddenly lurched backwards, pulling Esme down with him. She tumbled into his lap, and he caught her deftly, cursing in pain as the quick movement twisted his injured neck. The two froze in each other's arms. A beat passed. Then suddenly, he was laughing and she could feel how close his lips were to her neck. Esme came to her senses and quickly rolled off of him, then sat back against the wall, her face reddening.

"Sorry," he was still laughing. "I guess I can't stand."

"You did that on purpose!" she accused.

"I didn't think you'd fall on me!" he snorted. "I just wanted you to join me on the ground. Now you can share the lovely view of skeleton bodies and creepy Redcliffe statues."

"Thanks," she blew hair out of her eyes.

"Don't be maaaaad," he crooned, elbowing her.

"Don't even try that, my prince," she batted his elbow away. "You wanted me to fall on you!"

"I most certainly did not, your Highness!" Alistair protested.

"Those rooms are empty, save for a few poultices I found," Zevran emerged from the room nearby. Once he took in the pair sitting against the wall, a smirk curved his lips. "Esme, is that a blush I spy coloring my other favorite Grey Warden's cheeks? What have I missed?"

Esme whipped her head around to face the man beside, only to see Alistair glaring at the elf with his jaw tensed. Zevran raised his hands defensively, and the Grey Warden couldn't help but notice the reddened tint of Alistair's face.

"You are blushing!" she crowed. Alistair frowned as Zevran snickered. "Oh, how the tides have turned!"

"I-I am _not_ blushing," he asserted stiffly, getting to his feet. "Come on now, let's find Morrigan and go before more of these things find us here."

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_Hope you enjoyed! Reviews are appreciated._


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